


Do Not Go Gentle

by Prevalent_Masters



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Allura (Voltron) Lives, Anal Sex, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, BAMF!Lance, Espionage, F/F, F/M, Fix-It, Graphic injuries, Hurt/Comfort, Idiots in Love, Implied/Referenced Torture, Kidnapping, M/M, Post Season 8, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Rimming, Slow Burn, The slowest, klance, klangst, the fun stuff, ya know
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-26
Updated: 2020-03-12
Packaged: 2020-05-20 00:18:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 10
Words: 130,976
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19366492
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Prevalent_Masters/pseuds/Prevalent_Masters
Summary: Wars never end neatly, and they rarely end quickly. It's kind of unfair that, after saving the universe, Lance still has to deal with evil plots, bad guys, assassination attempts, daring rescues, death, and bad dreams. Not to mention love. He thought he was done with all that.Or: After the war, Lance goes home. His problems follow. Namely, Keith. Lance has no choice but to follow him right back, even when he disappears without a trace. Funny how that goes.





	1. End

“Lance,” Allura says in his ear. “Lance.” She smells like sweat and that sweet floral aroma that lingers even after a days-long battle. Even after she almost dies. “Lance, look at me.”

Gradually, sounds filter in. People shouting. Someone talking right behind him, deadly serious. Feeling. His knees pressed against the ground. His arms around Allura. Her lips brushing against his ear as she speaks. He pulls back enough to see her, blinking rapidly. Her eyes, bright blue and purple. Her marks, glowing softly. He opens his mouth to speak but nothing comes out save for a slight puff of air. Allura’s hands tighten on his biceps. “Lance, we need to move.”

He chokes on his answer, breath wheezing out. Allura looks concerned, eyes sliding to land on something behind Lance. He hears a shuffle, a sigh, and a hand lands on his shoulder, heavy, squeezing slightly.

“Lance,” Keith says. “It’s over. It’s all over.”

It’s all over. He shifts his eyes to Keith. He looks terrible, exhausted, purple bags heavy under his eyes, a trickle of drying blood running from his nose down over his lips. 

“She,” he croaks to Keith, then turns back to Allura, “You—you were going to die.”

Allura looks calm, but he can feel the tremble of her fingers where they grip his arms. She shakes her head. Keith’s hand squeezes a little tighter. “She didn’t, Lance. She’s right here. We’re all right here.”

When she’d rested a gentle hand on his cheek and led Honerva away into the light he’d expected to never see her again. He’d wanted to run after her, stop her, hold her, but his feet were held down against that strange mirror of a floor, his body heavy and not his own, like in a dream. After they were blown apart in the blast of realities returning, out of the mindscape, out of that last living reality, after Keith whispered in wonder over the comms, _are we…?_ and Altea, whole and undamaged, rose in front of them; Allura replied. Shell shocked, like she couldn’t believe she was there, either, she said _it’s Altea._

And Lance, at the sound of her voice, hunched over in his pilot’s chair and started sobbing.

He’s not sure how he managed to get back to the Atlas. His memory picks back up, hazy, as he stumbled out of his lion and across the hangar to Allura, standing in front of Keith, arms limp at her sides; and wrapped her in his arms. 

Loosening his grip on her, he pulls into himself more, wrapping an arm around his stomach, battling nausea and bowing his head nearly to the floor. “H-how are you not? How are we—we’re all—how are we not all dead? O-oh my god. Holy shit.”

Allura shifts so she’s curled next to him, arm around his shoulder, hand petting at his hair and this is wrong, he should be the one comforting her, she’s the one who almost gave up everything, but he can barely think, let alone move to comfort. He stares blankly down at his hands, lying limp in his lap.

“I think he’s having a panic attack,” Keith says above his head.

“‘m not,” he mumbles, but he can barely hear himself. 

“He should go to the infirmary,” Allura replies. “We should all go to the infirmary. We need to make sure—be sure everyone’s truly alright.”

Heavy footsteps echo across the hangar and Hunk’s feet appear in his line of vision. He squeezes his eyes shut.

“Lance, buddy? You doing okay?”

Obviously not, he wants to say, but responds with a wheeze instead.

“Panic attack,” Keith says curtly. His hand hasn’t left Lance’s shoulder.

“I can see that,” Hunk says. He crouches down in front of Lance, close but not touching. “Hey buddy? Can you breathe with me? Remember, like we used to do? Just listen to my breathing, try to match yours to mine, okay?”

He groans weakly in response. Hunk. His best friend for years, dragged into this insane war because Lance peer pressured him to leave the dorms after curfew. He’d hated it. He could have died, a thousand times over, and it would have been Lance’s fault. He reaches out to grip Hunk’s wrist.

“Hey buddy, you with me?”

He chokes on a breath, tries to inhale, manages to get in enough air to garble out a “sorry”.

“It’s okay, Lance, this has been a lot…”

He shakes his head insistently and Hunk trails off. “What?”

“I’m...so sorry...it’s my fault you got involved in this...all my fault. What if...what if you died?”

Hunk grips his hand tightly. “Don’t say that. I’m fine, okay? We’re all fine. We’re all here. Just breathe with me.”

They are not fine. He chokes on one breath. Heaves out another. Allura draws his head to her chest and murmurs into his ear, her heartbeat thundering against his cheek. Alive. Alive. She’s alive. He’s alive. He can feel the blood beating through Hunk’s fingers where their hands are joined, the twitching of Keith’s fingers digging into his shoulder. Alive. He breathes in. Out. In. Alive.

He feels the moisture on his cheeks before he really realizes he’s crying. Pidge says his name and she takes his free hand in hers, stroking her thumb over his knuckles. His hearing slowly returns over the blood rushing in his ears and he can hear Allura whispering “it’s okay, it’s okay,” over and over again, the confused shouting of other people in the hangar, running footsteps. Shiro’s voice. Coran’s.

Shiro sounds like he’s crying, too. He feels Keith’s hand jolt a little and opens his eyes to see Shiro on his knees next to their little pile, face buried in Keith’s neck, arm tight around him. Keith looks like he barely knows how to respond, but eventually tucks his head down next to Shiro’s. Lance sees his shoulders shake once, then again, nearly imperceptible. Coran crouches down behind him, a hand on his back and another on Allura’s shoulder, and she turns her face towards him, eyes huge.

“Princess,” he whispers. “You—” He can’t seem to continue. Allura lets out a low noise and collapses into him, arms still around Lance, and she’s crying. Shiro’s crying. Tears drip down Hunk’s cheeks and Pidge’s eyes remain dry, but she curls into the rest of them, shaking slightly. Keith’s shoulders are still shaking, tremors running down to the hand on Lance’s shoulder and Lance knows his face would be wet if he could see it. 

What a mess they all are.

What a living, breathing, mess.

* * *

 

**6 months later**

“Really,” says the alien that looks like a slug, voice dripping with condescension, “I don’t see how this alliance would benefit my people. It seems to me less an alliance and more an act of...charity. Another planet’s defense forces to add to your arsenal.”

Lance sighs and struggles to stop his leg from jittering with impatience. It’s been hours of going in circles with this jackass alien and his oily voice and Lance is over it, he wants to eat and stretch his legs and go to bed. Next to him, Allura looks as unruffled as ever, but he’s close enough to see the clenched muscles in her jaw. He slides his gaze around the table and catches Shay attempting to hide a yawn behind her hand. She meets his gaze and rolls her eyes.

“I’m sorry,” Allura says, unfailingly polite. “Were we not just discussing Carath’s need for Balmeran crystals?”

The slug sneers. “Yes, we were. However, that seems to be an issue between Carath and Balmera with very little to do with Altea.” His eyes narrow and he seems suddenly sinister, bulbous body and all. “It seems, Princess, that New Altea is desperate to meddle in every affair it can in order to claw its way back to power. I’m afraid it’s been ten thousand years. You are nothing now, a scattered group of survivors that barely retains a resemblance to the Alteans of old. You have no place demanding alliances.”

Allura’s jaw clenches tighter. Lance’s knee starts bouncing.

“Do you mean to imply that you were around ten thousand years ago to see us in our heyday? Because I was there, but I cannot seem to remember ever meeting _you_.”

The Carathian backs down slightly at Allura’s tone of voice, but manages to save face by simpering “I am merely a student of history, Queen Allura.”

This time, Allura’s teeth grind audibly. Lance leans forward. “If I may, Queen Allura?” He defers to her authority at these meetings, a strange thing given their relationship in everyday life. But Allura’s fought hard to be seen as an authority figure, and Lance isn’t about to mess that up.

She nods once, and under the table he feels her hand settle on his knee, stilling its nervous bouncing. He tries to relax. 

“The idea of an alliance is all of us working together, supporting each other. The Balmerans are part of the Voltron Alliance, alongside Altea and hundreds of other planets and peoples. If you sign a treaty agreement for crystal resources with the Balmerans, you are implicitly agreeing to respect their alliances, as well. You can choose to do that, and not be an official part of the Alliance.”

Allura shoots him a look. The entire point of this day-long meeting was to get the Carathians to join them. He tangles his fingers in the hand still resting on his knee and squeezes reassuringly.

“Or,” he says, “you could put more consideration into what the Alliance could do for you. You seem to have only considered the fact that you need the crystals, and the Balmerans would benefit from the trading routes in your sector. However,” he leans forward to look at the notes spread in front of him. “It looks like one of your outer moons—Ythra?—is still lagging in relief efforts after the Galra takeover twenty decaphoebs ago. If you join the alliance, the Blade would be able to provide immediate assistance in relief efforts. An alliance with Altea would allow more wormholes to be opened to your sector, widening your trade routes. You are in a rather isolated sector, aren’t you? Not to mention the benefit of an alliance for defense purposes in the event of any future invasions or unrest—defense for all of us. 

“I understand why you’re hesitant,” he says to the slug, leaning forward more and putting his hands on the table, palm up, a gesture he’s learned inspires trust, his body language open and relaxed. “A lot has happened the last few years after centuries of oppression. No one was expecting Voltron, no one was expecting Altea and Daibazaal to be restored, no one was expecting the war to end the way it did. But that’s why the alliances we make are so crucial—we must be willing to work with each other and trust one another, despite the uncertainty. We all have resources we can share, if we’re willing to negotiate.”

Shay clears her throat and leans forward. “Lance is correct. We can help you with your need for crystals, but you did mention the situation on Ythra, and we don’t have the resources to help with that. The Alliance does.”

The slug guy narrows his eyes, staring at Lance. He really regrets not catching his name at the beginning of this mess, though, to be fair, it seemed to consist mostly of vowels and was nearly unpronounceable. Referring him to “slug guy” in his head this whole time hasn’t really lent itself to the sense of importance this meeting should be carrying. His knee starts bouncing again under the gaze of the alien.

“The red paladin,” the slug muses. He turns to Allura. “You have a diplomat on your hands.”

Allura glances at him, warmth in her eyes. “Yes,” she says. “We do.” Her hand sneaks back to his knee, a steady pressure. Warmth blooms in his stomach at her small praise. 

The slug shifts his gaze back to Lance. “Your points are well made, young paladin. My people are not quick to trust, and we are inclined to be more cautious thanks to the events of the recent war. The circumstances of Altea’s renewal are still...difficult to understand. And while Zarkon and the Witch are gone, there are still rogue Galra generals and pirates scattered throughout the universe that could pose potential danger. There is...much to consider.”

“I understand,” Lance replies. “My own planet faced those same uncertainties not long ago. But I think it’s better to face those uncertainties together, as a united front, than as scattered individuals with half-formed alliances.”

The slug sighs and looks back to Allura. “The Blade,” he says. “What immediate services would they provide?”

“Food and medical supplies,” Allura says immediately. “Then building supplies and labor to help with those efforts. Technology and communications systems. Engineers, if they are needed to rebuild infrastructure. Emergency shelters.”

“And Ythra could only benefit from this if we agree to join your Alliance?”

“No,” Allura says. “The Blade is committed to helping any who need it. But there is...a lot of rebuilding to do. A lot of relief needed. It is easier to work with allied planets in terms of coordination and ease of communications, so the relief would certainly be provided sooner if Carath joined. Blade representatives will be on New Altea in a few quintants for the Alliance meetings and gala if you wish to talk to them directly.”

The slug nods slightly. “And new wormholes would be opened to our sector?”

Allura nods. “That would benefit us, certainly. You have a monopoly on trading routes in that sector, and we need to be able to move supply ships in and out. Especially if we are providing relief resources.”

The slug sighs again. “I must consult with my party in private. We are all tired, I think. Perhaps we can finish these negotiations in the morning?”

Lance physically has to fight back a groan at the thought of this tedious discussion going on for any longer, but Allura nods graciously. 

“Thank you, Queen Allura.” The slug oozes out of his chair and everyone else starts to pull away from the table, standing and stretching, wandering away or gathering to talk in small groups. Allura sighs, back slumping out of the perfect posture she held for the whole day, and rubs her fingers over her forehead. “What a mess,” she mumbles quietly, and Lance scoots closer to her, finally able to throw away the formalities, and tucks a strand of hair behind her ear. “You did great,” he assures her.

She turns to him and smiles slightly, squeezing his hand in hers. “So did you. Thank you. I think your reasoning might have finally convinced him. Who knows how long we’d have sat here if you hadn’t interjected.”

Lance breathes out a laugh. “Still might not have convinced him.”

Allura smiles at him. “Oh, I think you did.” She leans forward and presses a quick kiss to his lips, right there in front of everyone. 

Shay makes her way over to them and squeezes Lance’s shoulder. “She’s right. Thank goodness you finally talked some sense into him, Lance, I was about to fall asleep.” She smiles sheepishly and rubs her eyes. “I’m going to turn in, I told Hunk I’d call him tonight and I’m already late. You know how he worries.”

Lance smiles back, warmth rising in his chest at the mention of Hunk. He’ll see him in just a few days, at the Alliance gala, and he can’t wait. He hasn’t seen him in nearly five months. “Tell him hi from me.”

“I will.” Shay pats Allura on the shoulder, too, and wanders out of the room. Allura stifles her own yawn behind her hand. “What do you say to stealing some food from the kitchens and eating it in bed?” she asks.

“Sounds amazing,” Lance says, standing up and pulling her out of her chair. “Lead the way.”

* * *

Later that night, he extracts himself from Allura’s jellyfish-like arms and slides out of bed, padding barefoot out of the bedroom and into the lounge with its floor to ceiling window looking out over the grounds and into the valley below. As queen, Allura’s rooms are extensive and rather opulent. He’s used to the clean, sharp lines of the castleship; beautiful, but built for function above all else. Here in this grounded palace on New Altea, the Altean and Olkari builders had seen fit to build more for beauty. The intricate designs in the walls, the jewel-like lights, the soaring ceilings that remind him of cathedrals back on earth—they all serve to make him feel just slightly out of place, somebody who doesn’t quite belong here and never quite will. _I’m just a boy from Cuba_ , he remembers whispering to the mice on the castleship years ago, and it still holds true.

He takes a deep breath and steps close to the window, until his forehead rests on the cool glass. The night sky of Altea is brighter by far than that of earth, many more stars visible thanks to the lack of light pollution and the planet’s proximity to the center of its galaxy, more densely packed with stars than the arm of the Milky Way. Two moons hang in the sky, one full lying low over the mountains, the other a high, cold crescent. He closes his eyes and breathes deep, thinks of Earth. Thinks of the farm, fields green and verdant when he left, rebuilt and replanted after the chaos of the Galra. He thinks of his family. Of promising to visit once a month when he left four months ago. Of all of them crammed in front of a computer, trying to fit into the view during a video chat. He thinks of Shiro and Pidge at the Garrison. Of Keith, the last time he saw him in person, standing in front of the ruins of his cabin in the desert, trashed during the Garrison investigation after they disappeared.

After it was over, in the throes of PTSD so intense he was afraid to fall asleep at night because he knew what nightmares would come, all he wanted to do was be at home. But as the aftermath of the war unfurled and they were faced with the mess that was left over—planets torn apart, refugees scattered across galaxies with nowhere to go, rogue Galra generals and pirates wrecking havoc, the rest of the Galra reeling over the return of their home planet, the Alteans Lotor and Honerva brainwashed, and, most painful, the loss of the lions, their shells silent and unresponsive, drained of their quintessence, still sitting in the hangar of the Atlas; Lance realized he couldn’t just go home. During the whole war, he made it through by anticipating the end. When it came, after they won, he would be done. He could go home. They could all go home.

Turns out, the war was only the beginning. There was so much to do that even the thought of going home and leaving it all to the rest of them was enough to make guilt churn heavy in his stomach, though the thought of shooting back up into space was equally unsettling. He’d spent a mere week at home after it was over, sleepless and horrible, half trapped in memories. His dreams were all tangled up in flying, in being shot at, in falling down to earth and sinking through water, unable to move, in floating through space with no helmet and nothing around him, slowly suffocating.

In the end, he didn’t have much of a choice. He couldn’t retreat to the farm, Allura was going to New Altea to try to sort out that mess and retain some semblance of the coalition they built while fighting, and she wanted Lance to come with her. And Lance wanted to be wanted, wanted to be needed. He could barely comprehend what life without the constant threat of battles and death and fear was supposed to be like, but the thought of working for the Alliance by Allura’s side, trying to build something new out of the ashes of war, didn’t seem so bad.

It’s days like this that should prove he made the right choice. He successfully maneuvered through a difficult diplomatic situation, he helped influence the outcome, he was useful. And yet. His mind dwells between heavy green rows of tomato vines, knees in the red dirt, the brown-green residue from the vines coating his fingers as he prunes them. His heart stands bare on the beach, watching the shadows of palm fronds play on the sand. When he fell asleep earlier that evening he woke up twenty minutes later, panting and sweating, from a dream where each of his friends was shot in the forehead, execution-style. Then he’d looked down at his hands and realized he was the one holding the gun—his bayard. His shots were perfect.

During the war, he’d dreamed of Varadero and his mom’s cooking. What he wouldn’t give for those dreams now.

He sighs and settles down in front of the window, wrapping a blanket he stole from bed around his shoulders. He knows the drill by now, six months in. He won’t be able to fall asleep again tonight. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Still not over Voltron. Wish I was. Decided to write a (mostly) canon-compliant fix-it fic except for in this house we love and respect Allura so she's not dead. 
> 
> I am physically incapable of writing anything that doesn't contain copious levels of hurt/comfort so...slow start but buckle up kids. 
> 
> Unoriginal title from that one Dylan Thomas poem, but you already knew that because you probably had to memorize it in middle school.
> 
>  


	2. Inhale

After two more excruciating hours going back and forth with the slug alien and his delegation, after he finally, _finally_ agrees to work with them as long as he can talk to the Blades as soon as they get to Altea, Lance stumbles out of the meeting room, desperate for a nap. And runs into what feels like a brick wall. A brick wall with arms, which pick him up, squeeze him, and twirl him like a princess.

“Hunk!” He laughs, wrapping his arms around his neck and squeezing back. He buries his face in Hunk’s chest and breathes in deep, Hunk’s scent wrapping him up like another hug straight from home. Cooking spices, motor oil, some new cologne he must be trying out, the salty hint of an ocean….

“Hey, buddy!” Hunk says, setting him down, but keeping his hands firm on Lance’s shoulders. “Long time no see!” Romelle emerges from behind him, huge grin on her face, and waves to Lance as she beelines to Allura to wrap her in a hug. 

Lance unexpectedly finds himself choking up. “Hunk...it’s...uh, it’s really good to see you.”

Hunk slings an arm around his shoulders and pulls him into a crushing side hug. “You too, buddy. Man, this place is a sight for sore eyes. I have to say, traveling all over is neat, and you would not _believe_ how much I’ve learned about cooking but I’m so tired. I’m ready to stay in one place for more than two days at a time. Have you seen Shay?”

Right. Hunk just got here, and he probably really wants to see Shay, and he’s not ready for Lance to lay out every bad part of the last five months for him to analyze. Hunk definitely doesn’t need to hear about the number of times he’s died in Lance’s dreams. “She’s still in the meeting room, I think. Your girlfriend is quite the diplomat, man.”

Hunk blushes. “Don’t call her that, she’s not my anything yet.”

“Well it’s not going to take much to convince her,” Lance says, clapping him on the back. “Go on, we can catch up later.”

Hunk nods. “Meet me in the kitchens later, I’ve got an insane dish I want to make for lunch that I think you’ll love.”

Lance nods and watches him go. Allura is deep in conversation with Romelle, so he turns slowly and makes his way towards the entrance hall. It’s beautiful outside, maybe he’ll take a nap out there and waste away the time until someone wants to hang out with him. 

Yes, he’s aware he sounds whiny, thank you. But he’s still unsettled from his dreams, from the near-sleepless night, from the way Allura snapped at him this morning at breakfast, a victim of her own insomnia. The ache in his chest—missing his family, missing the farm—throbs. Maybe the sun and the juniberry fields and trees will remind him enough of home to dull it.

He’s not looking where he’s going, hands stuffed in his pockets, moping, which is why he runs right into yet another person just as he rounds the corner into the entry hall.

The person lets out a loud _oof_ and stumbles back, then lurches forward to grab Lance around the bicep as he too stumbles and nearly falls. He’s halfway through a mumbled sorry when the person’s hood falls back.

“Keith?” Lance gasps. “I thought—you’re not supposed to be here!” 

“Good to see you too,” Keith says. “You should watch where you’re going.”

Lance just gapes at him. He hasn’t seen Keith in person since the war ended, and he looks...different. Hair’s a little longer, tied back in a little ponytail, though most of the stupid mullet still falls in his eyes. A little taller, maybe. Or maybe he’s just holding himself differently. More relaxed and more confident at the same time. He’s not wearing a Blade uniform, just a nondescript black flight suit and dark blue jacket. Lance glances behind him and sees Kosmo, sniffing around the doors to the entrance hall.

Keith smiles uncertainly at him and Lance realizes he’s been staring. He quickly looks away and clears his throat. “We expected you with the rest of the Blade in a few quintants.”

Keith shrugs. “I finished up a solo mission a little earlier than planned, decided to just come here. I...thought we could all catch up.”

Lance has spent enough time with Keith to know what he’s not saying. _I missed you_. And, truthfully, Keith is a sight for sore eyes. He’s notoriously bad at communication and he’s been off on Blade missions more often than not; dangerous ones, to planets that need help but might still be hostile. He’s turned out to be a bit of a workaholic, diving into the humanitarian missions with the same brazen, single-minded intensity that he used to fight with, and Lance has worried about him more than he’d like to admit. He sees him more often on broadcasts and video chats during meetings than anything else, giving interviews about the Blade's work or updates to the Alliance. Every time he sees him alive some tension eases from his chest. So he smiles and draws Keith into a brief one-armed hug. Keith stiffens against him for a split second, then returns it. “Good to see you, man,” Lance says. “I’m glad you came early.”

Keith smiles at him, more genuine this time. “Yeah. Uh...where were you headed?”

“Oh,” Lance says, having briefly forgotten his sour mood. “I was just, uh, gonna go get some air. Been in meetings all morning.”

Keith makes a face. “Meetings.”

“Too many,” Lance says. “You can join me, if you want.” He’s extending the invitation out of politeness, he doesn’t expect Keith to take him up on it. After all, there are other people Keith probably wants to see more than Lance. So he’s shocked when Keith shrugs, sets down his rucksack against the wall, and heads back towards the doors he just came in. He turns after a few steps to look back at Lance and raises an eyebrow.

“Were you planning on going outside for that air, or just sitting in the hallway?”

Lance scrambles to catch up to him and Kosmo bounds over, bouncing excitedly around his feet. He bends down to pet him and gets a faceful of space wolf breath. “I didn’t think you’d actually want to.”

Keith shrugs and — is that a slight flush on his cheeks? “I’m not quite ready to face everyone. Besides, we haven’t talked in awhile.”

“Aww, mullet, you actually care?”

Keith huffs. “And right away, I regret it.”

Lance laughs, a strange lightness replacing the heaviness in his chest. What a relief, for them to fall right back into their old rhythms. He gestures to the doors, still cracked open from Keith’s arrival. “After you.” 

They wander back around the palace, through the gardens and back towards the shores of the lake the palace sits next to. A delicate bridge, reminiscent of the highways and bridges on the old Altea, reaches from the palace across to the far shore. They settle on a beach covered in sparkling blue pebbles, like sapphires on Earth. Kosmo bounds into the water joyously and Keith searches the beach for a stick to throw for him. Lance sits and runs his fingers through the pebbles. After a few throws, Keith comes to sit behind him, eyes on some clouds gathering over the hills in the distance.“You seen a thunderstorm here yet?”

Lance laughs softly. “A few. Coran wasn’t lying. I almost got killed the first time. Had to run inside dodging rocks.”

Keith laughs, too. “Sounds like a warzone.”

“Felt like it.” Lance doesn’t continue, doesn’t say that after he made it indoors he collapsed, hyperventilating, lost in horrific memories, and no one found him for close to thirty minutes, when some poor groundskeeper practically opened a door straight into him. Keith doesn’t need to know those details. 

Keith’s still eyeing the clouds. “Those look pretty dark.”

“It won’t rain.”

“It looks like thunderheads.”

“Rainclouds look different here. Like…uh, what are they called on Earth? The thin, wispy ones?”

“Cirrus. Really?” 

Lance shrugs. “Lots of things are different here. What about Daibazaal? What’s it like?”

Keith laughs, running a hand through his hair and dislodging his ponytail. It falls around his shoulders, tangled and longer than it looked pulled back. “I hardly spend any time there. It’s where our headquarters are, now, but I’m usually off doing…something.” 

“You just get to leave whenever?” His tone is joking but he feels a tinge of jealousy, tired of the endless meetings he’s been stuck with. “Aren’t you, like, a commander or something?”

Keith snorts. “We’re not that organized. I’m not worried about going on solo missions, or stuff other people think is risky, so I’m usually needed in the field. I go where they need me to go. Maybe after we get a better handle on things I’ll spend more time at headquarters.” He sighs and passes a hand over his face, the circles under his eyes dark, deep lines on his forehead between his eyes. 

“How is it out there?” Lance asks quietly. “We hear about things here, but we don’t really know. Just the reports that come in, and I’m sure we only hear a fraction of them.”

Keith sighs again, long and tired. Kosmo, tired out from his exertions, comes and drops his soggy head in Lance’s lap with a sigh.

“It’s bad, Lance,” Keith says quietly, after a long silence. “It’s really bad. Hearing about it is one thing, but seeing it….So many people are dead, planets are in ruins, and it’s not over, is the thing. The war is over, but people are still dying and losing their homes and fighting each other everywhere. It’s chaos.” He rubs a hand over his face again.

“What was your last mission?” Lance asks. “The solo one.”

Keith stares out over the water, a curiously blank expression on his face. “It was a planet in a sector near Olkari. Laurent. I don’t think we ever went there with Voltron. It had been under Galra control for so long that when the empire fell apart it fell apart too. It was abandoned by most of the Galra after Zarkon died, but various generals and mercenaries fought over it afterwards. It was a strategic location, close to Olkari and some Coalition strongholds. No government, no organization, no accountability for anyone, Galran or native. More than half the population died in the last three years. The rest are refugees, all crowded onto a small island away from the old population centers, where the worst of the damage was, where there’s still fighting. That sector is still a major hotbed of rogue Galra activities, so it’s a pretty dangerous situation.”

“And you just went into it. To do what?”

“Evacuations. The planet is constantly surrounded by pirates and old Galra ships and so on—it’s nearly impossible to leave and almost as hard to get around them to land there. We’re trying to evacuate the children. I was running evacuations for about a movement, back and forth a few times every quintant, taking small groups each time. A lot of people are sick and starving. With the blockades and fighting on the mainlands and the state of the refugee camps, plus the fact that we can’t get ships in to deliver the aid they need…the best bet is to get as many people off planet as we can.”

“And you were doing it all alone, no backup?”

Keith shrugs. “We had to be covert. I can fly fast, and we had Pidge’s cloaking technology on my craft. It was too dangerous for more to be down there. Like I said, we were trying to get the children off planet. The Blade and some allies from that sector have an attack planned for after these meetings, to try to take out some of the generals holding out there. Could be pretty disastrous, so the fewer people on the planet the better.”

“Disastrous how?”

Keith shrugs. “There are still ion cannons out there. Enough ammo to destroy planets if you’ve got a good ship and plenty of power.”

Lance shudders at the thought, at the idea that planets might still be destroyed even after the war is supposed to be over, after everyone should have learned their lesson with Altea and Daibazaal and dozens of others.

“That sounds horrible,” he says quietly, feeling guilty for his earlier jealousy. Keith shrugs, eyes fixed firmly ahead.

“At least it gives me something to do. If I was sitting around in meetings I’d go insane. I can barely stand to be around people. I don't know why. I just like doing stuff on my own.”

Lance shakes his head. “Same old Keith.”

He cracks a smile. “I liked working with you all.”

“Only after you ran away for a year.” He doesn’t realize he sounded sharp until Keith winces slightly. 

“Sorry,” Lance says, “I didn’t mean…”

“No,” Keith says. “I shouldn’t have left when I did. It was immature, and then what happened with Shiro…I should have been there.”

“No, Keith,” Lance says, sitting up from where he’s reclined back on his elbows. Kosmo whines as he’s jostled. “I didn’t mean anything by it, you had your reasons. If you hadn’t done it you wouldn’t have found Krolia; we wouldn’t have been able to work with the Blades as closely as we did. I didn’t mean—I just meant, you seemed happier when you got back. More settled.”

Keith’s quiet for a long time. Then, softly: “I missed you all while I was gone, you know. I did.” It sounds like it’s being choked out of him, and Lance sits up even straighter, shocked that Keith’s admitting it.

“Wow. That’s astoundingly vulnerable of you to admit.”

Keith punches him in the shoulder. Hard. “Don’t ruin it.”

“We missed you too,” Lance says, massaging his shoulder. “You know that, right?”

Keith shrugs. 

“We did.” Lance nudges his shoulder. “Hey. Seriously.”

“Seemed like you were getting on fine,” Keith mumbles.

“Yeah, it was great. Shiro was a clone, Coran went insane, we all almost died about twelve times, and we made friends with Lotor. Didn’t get our shit together till you showed up again, did we?”

A smile flickers around Keith’s mouth. “I guess.” Then he sighs and stretches his arms over his head, yawning. “What about you? Gotten off planet at all, or just stuck in meetings?”

Lance refrains from saying he’s too afraid to set foot in a spacecraft to even visit home. “Nah. It’s been too busy. Things are a mess. Not like what you’ve seen, but still a mess.”

“Well,” Keith says, “if you ever want a break from the meetings, you could come out on a Blade mission sometime. People would probably love to see the return of _loverboy Lance_.” He says it in a mocking tone, joking, but the offer is sincere. For a moment, Lance feels a thrill of excitement—out on a mission, doing work on the ground, actually helping instead of just talking about the plans to help—wouldn’t that be nice? But then he thinks about his nightmares, about the trickle of unease that slides down his back at even the thought of leaving the comfortable hole he’s dug himself on Altea.

“Yeah,” he says lightly. “They would like that, wouldn’t they? Who knows, man. Maybe sometime.”

Keith smiles at him, a flash of white teeth, and then yawns again. “I haven’t slept much this last movement. Might take a nap before dinner. Think you could show me a room?”

Lance leaps to his feet and Kosmo stands and stretches, yawning himself. “At your service. Come on. You look terrible.”

Keith rolls his eyes. “Thanks, Lance.” But he lets Lance pull him up off the ground and they amble back to the palace in amiable silence while Lance tries to tamp down the unease still stirring in his belly.

* * *

After two more days of tedious meetings, it’s finally the night of the gala celebration, which is really the only part of the whole thing Lance has been looking forward to. Food, wine, music, dancing, and almost all of his friends in the same place for the first time in ages—what’s not to love?

He sits on the window seat looking out over the grounds as Allura finishes dressing. Below them, the party spills out from the great hall onto the lawns, hundreds of individuals from a hundred different planets all brought together to celebrate everyone managing to muddle through the last six months together. He can see Hunk from up here, standing on the edge of the lawn with Shay, holding a plate and surrounded by an eager knot of people. He looks like he’s handing out samples. He taps his fingertips on the glass, eager to join the party.

“Alright,” Allura says behind him. “How does it look?”

He turns. She’s dressed in a long dark blue dress, similar in color to the one she first emerged from the cryo pod in on the castle ship, but much more modern. He hair is swept up in a complicated twist held in place by a simple golden circlet inlaid with blue stones. She smiles at him uncertainly. 

“Wow,” he says, standing. “Beautiful.”

“You’re sure? This doesn’t clash with the color of the dress?” she points at the stones in the circlet.

He reaches her, touches her cheek softly. She's got a couple inches on him in her high heeled shoes. Her eyes cross as they follow his fingers. “No. You’re perfect.”

She laughs. “I know I am. I was asking about the outfit.”

“The outfit’s perfect too, since it’s on you.” 

She laughs again. “Your flirting doesn’t work on me anymore, remember?” She leans in to kiss him anyway.

Five minutes later and slightly more disheveled, she pulls away breathless. “We need to go down,” she says, pushing him away as he chases after her. 

“We could stay up here,” he offers.

“You’re the one who’s talked nonstop about this party since I first mentioned it. Come on. Oh, but first—” she darts over to the nightstand, fruitlessly attempting to smooth her hair back as she goes. “I got you something.”

She holds out a small box and for a heart stopping moment he thinks she might be proposing before realizing Altean marriage customs are probably a lot different than Earth ones. He opens the box to reveal an earring, the classic Altean pendant, delicate gold encasing a dark blue stone. It matches the crown on Allura’s brow exactly.

Allura picks it up out of the box and holds it to his ear, the one he’d gotten pierced in a seedy tattoo shop in Havana a week after the war ended during one of his late night, insomnia fueled walks. He’s kept a tiny stud in it since then, nearly forgetting it was there.

“Can I?” Allura asks, and he nods. She slides out the stud and hooks the earring in. It swings, catching the light and throwing a tiny reflection onto the wall.

“It’s heavy.”

She cocks her head. “Too much?”

He shakes his head and feels it swing against the side of his neck, cool and smooth. “It matches your crown.”

She smiles. “It’s an old Altean custom. The royal consorts wore jewels that matched the crown. Everyone will know you’re mine.” A flicker of uncertainty flits across her eyes. “I thought it might be nice, but only if you’re alright with it.”

Heat pools in his gut. “I want to kiss you again.”

She looks relieved, hooking an arm through his as she evades his lips. “Not now. We’re late enough.” She pulls him towards the door, straightening his collar as they go. 

The gala passes quickly. He laughs and eats with Hunk, watches Pidge and Matt demonstrate their newest robot creations to an audience of rapt fans, and has an in-depth conversation about Earth and the Garrison with Shiro, which leaves him simultaneously aching for home and relieved that he’s finally gotten to talk about it, to ask questions and hear updates that only someone living on Earth would know. For a long time the six of them and Coran stand together in a corner of the ballroom, nearly in hysterics as the reminisce about some of the more ridiculous things that happened to them while they were shooting around the universe—Coran’s mucus disease, the cobbled-together video game systems Lance and Pidge built that were apt to explode at any time, climbing up the elevator shaft with Keith back when they were still pretending to hate each other, the first time Coran and Allura saw where milk came from, the fucking _game show_ that Lance is still convinced was some sort of detailed group hallucination. 

It’s good. It reminds him that despite the horrors and pain of the war, despite the memories crowding his dreams, they had good times. It makes him miss it, that easy camaraderie of the castleship, the simplicity of their mission. Defeat the Galra. Defend the universe. None of this messy diplomacy and delicate clean up. It’s nice when things are more black and white.

Soon, they’re sitting down at a table at the head of the room with other Alliance leaders. Guests crowd around, ready for the speeches. Kolivan goes first, gives an update on the Blade and extolls their humanitarian successes to polite applause from the crowd. Then Rynar stands to talk about development and postwar recovery and the spread of more advanced, helpful technologies across the universe. Shiro gives a report from the Garrison. A Krellian gives a report on military maneuvers against holdout Galran generals. A tall, willowy alien with golden skin and silvery hair—a Laurentian, Allura whispers to him, reminding him of Keith's story from earlier—reports on refugee resettlement efforts and the establishment of Alliance checkpoints in areas with high levels of Galra activity. At the very end, it’s Allura’s turn.

Allura’s speech is polished and wonderful. She’s been practicing for him, for Coran, for anyone who will listen, for the last two phoebs and the hard work shows. The crowd is silent, hanging on to every word; and she looks every bit a queen, standing tall and confidant and glittering in front of them. Pride swells up in his chest and he’s suddenly even happier about the earring hanging heavy from his lobe. He’s hers, and everyone can see it. How did he get so lucky?

He scans the crowd and catches the sight of someone—only one person—moving, not looking at Allura. They’re moving behind the majority of the crowd, weaving between people, coming from the open doors of the terrace deeper into the room. After a moment, he loses sight of them behind the crush of other bodies. He can’t quite pinpoint why, but a trickle of unease slides down his spine.

Abruptly, the sight of the packed room in front of him reminds him of a planet they’d liberated long ago. They were invited to a celebration after the fight, similar to this—packed with people, delicious food, wine flowing, speeches. Lance got drunk and flirted with a bunch of people, and then they left, not long after dark. In the middle of the night, as the castleship orbited lazily around the planet, they received a distress signal. By the time they’d made it back down to the ground, the city the celebration was held in was destroyed, the room they’d gathered in crushed to rubble, the remaining revelers trapped beneath mounds of flaming wood and bricks. The Galran ships that dropped the bombs were already gone, too far away to engage in combat.

He swallows, mouth dry, and looks around for a way out, but there is none. Allura’s halfway through her speech, standing next to him. All eyes are on her, but everyone would notice if he slipped away. Everyone would notice. Everyone is looking. Everyone is packed so close in this room, shoulder to shoulder, relaxed, happy, celebrating. And all Lance can think is how easy it would be to drop a bomb, to send in a gunman or train a laser on them all and take out all the most important people, the people who are making the Alliance work. He can imagine it, bullets suddenly raining down, an explosion somewhere, the roof collapsing in, or just sudden annihilation in a burst of light. He can hear the screams, see the blood on the ground. Allura with a bullet hole in her forehead, Keith with his limbs blown off, Hunk bleeding out in a corner. 

Lance viscerally remembers standing in the wreckage of that city, small fires scattered around, crumbled buildings everywhere. When he looked around for someone, anyone, to save, all he saw was a small arm poking out from a bit of wreckage, limp and lifeless.

A brutally effective tactic. It’s going to happen here. It’s going to happen to them. He can feel it. He can feel it. He can feel it. He can feel it.

He’s sweating. Allura’s still talking. He twitches his hand towards her, to tug on her sleeve, to warn her, but stops himself at the last minute. He’s just being paranoid, right? He shouldn’t interrupt her speech. It wouldn’t look good. Nothing’s going to happen. 

He catches movement at the corner of his eye and turns to look up at the balcony. Someone’s moving behind the throngs of people looking down over the edge, ambling along. He reaches for his gun but he doesn’t have it, doesn’t have any weapons at all, and shit, why didn’t he bring a weapon? Not even a knife. Panicked, he searches the crowd for Keith, for any Blade member. They’re never without their knives; if he can alert even one of them to the danger they might be saved.

Unless it’s bombs, not a gunman or a lone assassin. 

He can’t find Keith. He can’t find anyone. The faces and bodies blur together as he searches. Allura’s still talking. He can barely hear her over the sound of his own breathing, the pounding of his heartbeat. He thinks she sends a quick, concerned glance his way, but he can’t be sure. His vision blurs, and for a moment he sees nothing but fire and crumbling buildings and dead bodies in front of him. 

_You’re paranoid,_ he tells himself. _Don’t do this. Don’t fall apart right now. Everything is fine_.

Something’s going to happen. He feels it. He feels it he feels it he knows _he knows_.

And then he sees it—someone else making their way through the crowd, purposeful, sliding between bodies, eyes—all six of them—fixed on Allura. The distance between them closes quickly. He glances around. No one else seems to notice. No one is stopping them, no one’s even looking twice as they move through the crowd.

Lance zeroes in on them. They’re close to the front now, raising their hand. Something glints, clenched in their fist.

He’s moving before he fully makes the decision, senses sharp, vaulting over the table with the same agility he had during the war, thanks to sleepless nights spent training. The room disappears around him and he hits the person hard, sending them both to the ground. They struggle for a moment, the people around them screaming and tripping away, and then Lance is on his back and there’s a knife at his throat and a snarling alien in his face and it’s all he can do to keep the knife from slicing into him, which is difficult when the alien’s other three arms are holding him down and punching him in the stomach. The room’s in an uproar and he snaps and everything falls away. He’s back on that barren planet with no oxygen and no armor, thrown around and bruised by Ezor’s minions. 

He grits his teeth and shoves a leg up, kneeing the alien in the groin area, hoping the anatomy is similar to that of humans. It must be, because the alien’s grip loosens as they gasp, and Lance twists his body to roll them back over, blade sliding across his neck in a stinging line. 

“What are you here for? Allura?” Lance demands, struggling to hold them down, trying to wrestle the knife out of their grip. Something flashes on the blade, engraved, and it looks for a moment like the symbol of the Galra Empire, but no, it can’t be, that war is over and besides, this alien is no Galran, with their strange anatomy and golden, shiny skin….

“You fool,” the alien hisses, voice somehow soft and lilting even through their clear fury. “the Alliance is useless and doomed, and so is she.” They buck, upsetting Lance’s balance, and they roll over again. Lance barely registers the glint of another blade in a different hand and thinks _oh shit_ , before the weight disappears, the alien pulled away by Keith, a thunderous expression on his face. Shiro looms behind him and the two of them restrain the wildly struggling alien.

“Lance?” Keith asks, “you okay?”

Lance scrambles to his feet, turning in a circle to look around him for someone else, because this person wasn’t alone. Someone else—or many other people—are here, too. They must be.

“Lance,” Keith says again, at his shoulder now. “What are you—“

“There must be more,” Lance says. “They can’t have been alone. Up on the balcony, I saw someone. You need to check.”

Keith turns and bellows behind him, “Look for others!” Blade members melt from the crowd to scout perimeters, a few heading up the stairway to the balconies. Lance is still looking around, wild and panicked. The crowd jostles around them, uncertain, scared. He’s shaking, turning around and around.

“You’re bleeding,” Keith says. “You should sit down. We’ll question them, we’ll figure out what’s going on.”

Lance shakes his head. “Bombs,” he says. “Keith, there are bombs.”

“There are no bombs, Lance.”

“How do you know?” Lance gasps. “Go check. Keith, I’m serious, someone needs to check.”

Around them, people mutter nervously.

“You’re freaking people out, Lance. Calm down. You stopped the guy, you saved Allura.”

He turns and grips Keith by the arms, shaking him slightly. “There are bombs!” He yells. “There’s something, can’t you feel it? They’re going to drop bombs on us. Don’t you remember? Don’t you remember those bombs?”

“I wasn’t there, Lance,” Keith says soothingly. “I remember hearing about it. It sounded horrible. The palace is protected by a particle barrier, remember? No one can drop bombs on us. What happened on that planet isn’t going to happen to us.”

“You’re wrong,” Lance says, and he’s shaking. Why can’t Keith understand? Why is no one else worried? They’re going to fall any minute, and they’ll all be dead. “You don’t get it. I have to—I have to go see—.” He turns away from Keith, pulling out of his reaching hands, and pushes his way through the crowds towards the door. He’s crying. People around him are muttering. He stumbles, rights himself, pushes people aside, makes it to the door. He stares up at the sky. Dark, a smattering of stars, low clouds in the distance. No ships. No cruisers. No bombs.

“Where are they?” he mumbles, turning to scan all around, searching. They have to be somewhere. He remembers how this goes. Silence, a feeling of safety, no worries. A sudden alarm call. Then fire.

“Where are they?” He shouts to the sky. Behind him, people spill out into the courtyard. “There are bombs!” He screams at them. “Get away! Get somewhere safe!” 

No one obeys him. In fact, some press further into the courtyard, towards him. They need to leave the palace grounds. They need to run. 

He moves towards them, pushing those closest to him. “Why aren't you listening to me?” he demands at a confused-looking alien with nearly translucent skin and long, pale hair. The alien looks almost identical to those on the planet that burned. In fact—isn’t this their leader? The old king, who welcomed them into his home for the celebration, who made a speech on their behalf, who laughed with Hunk as they shared recipes? Lance stares at him and reaches out to touch his face. The alien recoils slightly, looking even more confused. Around them, people press close and Lance feels trapped.

“You,” he murmurs at the alien. “You need to leave. You’re about to die. You’ll be crushed at your own dinner table and you’ll be half burnt by the time we find you.” The alien backs away, eyes wide. He turns to look at the others around him. A tall, willowy woman, whose skull was crushed by a brick. A soldier who’s armor was still flickering with flames by the time they arrived. A gaggle of children who’d run circles around the celebration. 

“I’m going to find your arm,” he says absently to one of them. “That’s the only part of you that’ll be left.” And then he snaps, because none of them are _moving_. He shoves the child back, then one of the women. “Go,” he says. “Go! Why don’t you understand? You’re all going to die!”

One of the kids starts crying and the woman draws him away. Lance’s vision blurs, goes double, and for a moment the people around him look different—different species, no longer tall and translucent, but varied, all alarmed. Then his vision slides back together and he sees them again, except they’re as they were when they returned and found them—crushed skulls, burnt bodies, missing limbs. All leering at him, pressing closer, fires burning behind them.

He gasps and starts backing away, then stumbles and starts to run, still searching the skies. Did the bombs already drop? Did they hit the palace, and he just didn’t notice? They must have. Why else would it be burning? But that can’t be it. More bombs must be coming.

Someone bursts out of the crowd and runs towards him, someone else trailing behind. He looks around wildly, backing up. He doesn’t have any weapons. They’re coming to kill him, to stop him from finding the ships that will drop the bombs, from warning people, from helping people escape. 

“Get away!” he yells again, desperately scanning the skies as he backs away from the people coming towards him. He balls his fists, ready to fight. His vision blurs again. Fire. Piles of rubble. Children’s arms. His dreams. Everyone he loves, dead. His cheeks are wet. 

He strikes out blindly as the first person reaches him and hears a loud _oof._ He hits again, pummeling with his fists and the soldier falls back. He tries to follow, to finish them, but then soft hands encircle his wrists and there’s no way this is a Galra soldier, they wouldn’t get this close without killing him; they wouldn’t be this gentle if they were capturing him. He gasps in a lungful of air.

“The bombs,” he whispers.

“There are no bombs, Lance,” Romelle says, eyes shining in the light spilling from the palace, hair piled neatly on her head, calm and put together. “We’re safe from that. They caught two others with weapons. We’re safe, you saved us.”

“No,” he gasps out. “I know, this has happened before, I remember—“

“You’re not there anymore,” she says softly. “The war is over, no one’s dropping bombs.”

“The Blade is,” he says, “It’s not over. It’s not over, we’re not doing enough, and people still want to kill us, and we’re killing people.”

“We’re not dropping bombs,” Keith says, drawing closer, and Lance realizes abruptly that he was the person who reached him first, and that he was hitting him, not a Galra soldier. A red spot blooms on his cheekbone where Lance's fist connected. “We’re fighting them on the ground. We’re not trying to kill civilians.”

He gasps out a sob. “Are you sure?” he demands. “Are you sure?”

“No bombs,” Romelle says. “I promise.”

His knees buckle. She tries to catch him but it’s too late, and they both sink to the ground. Lance looks past her shoulder and swears the palace is on fire, swears the people gathered in the doorway are burning alive. Allura’s in there. He tries to get up. Keith puts his hands on his shoulders and keeps him on the ground.

“Just sit, Lance. Try to calm down.”

He feels the earring heavy against his neck. “Allura—“

“Is fine,” Keith finishes. “She’s safe. Just breathe, Lance. Breathe with me.” He struggles to follow the order.

“It’s burning,” he gasps.

Keith shakes his head and steps in front of Lance, blocking his view. “It’s not. Lance. You’re on New Altea. It’s the Alliance celebration. The war’s over. There are no bombs. The palace is not on fire.”

“No,” Lance whispers, because there’s fire behind his eyes and dead children clogging his senses. But distantly, he can hear the chatter of people, can smell the juniberries blooming behind him. No ash. No scent of death. No eerie silence. 

"Lance. Do you trust me?” Keith waits until he nods, tiny and unsure. But he does. He does trust Keith. “It’s okay,” Keith says. “We got them. There are no bombs, and there won’t be.”

Lance grips Romelle’s arms tightly and bows his head forward. He can’t breathe. Keith’s hand lands on his back, rubbing gently. “Breathe, Lance.”

He tries to match his breathing to Romelle’s exhales and struggles, gasping. “I can’t—I’m sorry. I’m sorry, I made it worse, I’m sorry.”

“Shhh,” Romelle says. “It’s okay, you're okay. You saved the day. You’re okay.”

“Breathe,” Keith orders again and Lance does, sucking in gasps of sweet smelling air. 

“I’m sorry,” he says again, and bows into himself as he starts to cry in earnest.

He hates this, this feeling of helplessness, of losing control. He can’t ever stop once it starts, and he knows this will be at least thirty minutes of shaking and crying and terrible memories. He’s tired of this. He’s so, so tired. 

“It’s okay,” Romelle chants, over and over again. “It’s okay.” Keith rubs his back, up and down, slow and steady.

“Embarrassing,” he whispers when he has a breath. 

“What?” Romelle says softly.

“Made a big deal. Made it worse.” he laughs, hollow. “I’m crazy. I’m going crazy.”

“You’re not crazy,” Keith says. “Don’t say that. You have PTSD.”

“I’m tired. I’m so tired of it.”

“I know,” Keith says, and his voice is so gentle. Gentler than Lance has ever heard it. So unlike Keith, but then again, maybe not. Keith’s always had a gentle side, shining through when he plays with Kosmo or wraps his arms around Shiro or does this, rubbing Lance’s back through a panic attack. “I know. But you’re okay right now. Close your eyes for a minute. Just breathe.”

He leans forward and rests his forehead on Romelle’s shoulder, and she’s warm and breathing and alive. She and Keith shield him from the palace, from the people looking out, from the fear and confusion still lingering. He inhales. Exhales. Inhales. The tears still roll down his cheeks, but the sobs are quieting. He feels numb. Tingling. Exhausted. The cut on his neck throbs. 

After a few quiet minutes a new voice joins Keith’s and Romelle’s.

“Lance, buddy? It’s Hunk. Can I touch you?”

He nods, wordless, not looking up.

“Okay. Let’s get you up to your room, okay? Get you out of here.” Hunk loops an arm around him and pulls him up, assisted by Keith on the other side. The crowds have thinned, but he keeps his head down, ashamed and embarrassed by his public breakdown. Hunk and Keith stay close, shepherding him, and Romelle leads the way. Between the three of them he’s practically blocked from view. 

They make it back to his and Allura’s rooms and Hunk deposits him gently on the bed. He pulls his legs up and curls on his side, back to them. There’s a slight sinking of the mattress as someone sits down, but he doesn’t look up to see who.

“Allura?” he asks, voice rough from tears.

“She’s still dealing with stuff downstairs. Don’t worry, she has plenty of guards and a weapon now.” Hunk says.

“Okay.” He falls silent, curls tighter. He’s finally stopped crying, but he feels wooden. What is there to say?

“I’m okay,” he says after an awkward amount of time goes by. “You guys don’t have to stay.”

“You don’t want to change? Get more comfortable?” Hunk asks timidly. Lance just shakes his head.

“Okay,” Keith sighs after a moment of silence. “We’ll be in the other room, though. At least until Allura gets back.”

He doesn’t acknowledge the words. The weight on the bed lifts and there’s a quiet click as the door shuts. A soft murmur of voices from the next room. He lets himself drift, not quite asleep, but not fully aware, either. He hears the pounding of explosions and patter of gunfire echoing in his ears and battles with his mind to acknowledge it’s not real. 

He drifts until the door bangs open an unmeasurable amount of time later. Allura’s voice, cold with fury, drifts into his consciousness. 

“Is he still bleeding? Did no one think to treat his neck?”

The quiet voice of the palace physician floats over. “We did not know where he had gone.”

“He was really freaking out, Allura,” Keith’s voice comes low and quiet, from a little farther away. “We didn't want to touch him more than we had to, or touch him anywhere that might hurt him more.”

“You should have dealt with it when he calmed down, then,” she whispers, low and furious, and he hears soft footsteps crossing the room. “The blade had a poison on it. It’s stopping the wound from closing. Do you see how much blood he’s lost?”

There’s a light touch on his neck and it _hurts_. His eyes fly open and he gasps.

“Lance?” Allura asks, voice soft now, peering down at him with concern. She’s still wearing the fancy gown but her hair is pulled back tight from her face and she’s no longer wearing the sparkling heels. She looks all business now. “How are you feeling?”

“Sorry,” he croaks. “I went crazy.”

“Don’t apologize,” she says firmly. “You saved my life. Thank the ancients you noticed something was wrong.”

He squeezes his eyes shut again. “I thought we were back on that planet. The one where the bombs went off.”

“I know,” she says, gently carding her hand through his hair. “You were just trying to keep everyone safe. It’s alright.”

“I really think I’m going crazy, Allura.”

She sighs and sits down next to him. He cracks his eyes open again and sees her signal to someone, and a few seconds later she has a salve and bandages in her hands. He feels bad she has to take care of him like this after the night she’s had.

“Can you sit up for me?” she asks, and he pulls himself slowly up to lean against the headboard, lightheaded and still feeling numb. They’re alone in the room now, though he can hear voices and shadows moving in the other room through the open door.

“This might hurt,” she warns as she dabs at the blood on the cut across his neck. It does, but he can’t muster the energy to react. “It’s shallow,” she hums, spreading some of the salve over it. It burns at first, but then cools into a pleasant tingling. “It just bled a lot. Here, I’m just going to bandage it. Tell me if it’s too tight.”

He stays silent as she winds the bandage around his throat, staring at the wall.What if he snaps again like that, suddenly finds himself in the middle of another horror he’s already lived? What if it’s a different situation—an important diplomatic meeting, or the middle of the night? What if he attacks someone, tries to fight them and hurts them? He’d punched Keith, of all people. Keith, who he trusts more than almost anyone. All he’d seen was a soldier trying to kill him. What if all that happens and he can’t find his way out, can’t push himself back into reality? A never-ending flashback?

Allura finishes bandaging his neck and sets the supplies aside, taking his hand and folding it between hers. 

“I think you should go home,” she says after a moment of silence. His heart stutters in his chest and he jerks his head up to stare at her. “What?”

“I think you should go home,” she repeats. “Just for a bit. Take a break. Relax. Spend time with your family. I know you haven’t been sleeping, I know these flashbacks haven’t been getting better. They’ve been getting worse, haven’t they?”

He doesn’t answer. Doesn’t want to admit to her that yes, they have. That the more time goes by, the more he should be over it all, the worse it gets. 

“It might help you,” she continues, “to be around the familiar. You wanted to go home after the war, didn’t you? But you didn’t get a chance. You came here instead, and you have no idea how much that’s meant to me. You’ve been invaluable, Lance, but that doesn’t mean you can’t take a break.”

“But,” he says, voice pathetically small. “What about us?”

“What about us?” she echoes. “Nothing will change. We can talk every day if you want to. I can come visit. And you can come back whenever you feel ready, I’m not going to keep you away. I’m not talking about things changing, Lance. I’m just talking about a—a—what is it you say on Earth? When you take a break from your life?”

“A vacation,” Hunk calls out helpfully from the door where he’s clearly hovering, listening to their every word. Allura seems unfazed. “Yes! I want you to take a vacation, Lance.”

“I don’t want to sit at home doing nothing while the rest of you are out here working,” he argues back. “I don’t want to be useless.”

“You wouldn’t be,” she insists, then holds up a hand when he opens his mouth to protest. “You don’t have to answer right now. It’s been a long night. We should both sleep.Just…think about it? Just a few weeks with your family, away from all this. It might help. I just want you to feel better, love. It hurts to see you hurting like this.”

He sighs, thinks about his mother’s cooking, about Varadero Beach, about tomato plants and red soil and the feel of the sun—Earth’s sun—warming his back.

“Okay,” he says. “I’ll think about it.”

Two quintants later, he’s on a transport back to Earth, a small bag in his hands and Allura’s earring in his ear. He nearly has a breakdown when they take off and another when they go through a wormhole, but sixteen hours later he’s walking out of a space port into the wet, thick heat of Cuba and straight into his mother’s arms.

His family takes him home. His mother makes boliche for dinner, a dish he hasn’t tasted in nearly three years, but he can barely eat. He nibbles at the meat and rice on his plate and tries to ignore the concerned looks of his family. He tries to help with the dishes, but his hands haven’t stopped shaking since the night of the gala and he drops a plate a few minutes in. Rachel pushes him down into a chair at the kitchen table and takes his spot.

“It’s your first night back,” she says when he opens his mouth to protest. “You get a free pass today. Don’t get used to it.”

After the dishes are done, after the rest of his family drifts away, he’s still sitting at the table, staring at his hands. His mother pulls out a chair and sits across from him.

“ _Mijo_ ,” she says. “ _¿estás bien?”_

He shrugs in response. He doesn’t have words for her. He’s not okay. He doesn’t know what he is.

His mother sighs. “Leandro. I can’t fathom what you went through. I know it must be difficult to talk about, and I know you’re not okay. I’m your mother, I can see these things. We’re here for you, though, if you need anything, if you want to talk. Okay?”

He nods. He can’t meet her eyes. “ _Sí mamá. Yo sé eso.”_

She looks at him for a moment, then nods. Reaching across the table, she grasps his trembling hands in her own and holds them tight, holds them steady. He grips back, like a lifeline. They sit like that for a long time, the light fading from the kitchen, the sound of the surf creeping in through the open window. They sit until it’s dark and Lance blinks slow with exhaustion, until he lets her pull him gently to his feet and guide him to his old room, worn sheets on a twin bed, and he sinks down, wondering what it will be like to sleep without a warm body next to him after so long. Wondering if he’ll escape the nightmares for one night. Wondering what Allura’s doing, if it’s even day or night on Altea right now. Wondering….

He sleeps.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Galra? Galran? help
> 
> I know a little Spanish but I'm not a native speaker and I've never been to Cuba, so please correct me if something I've written doesn't sound right! This goes for the rest of the fic, too. I always appreciate language help!
> 
> More Keith and Lance next chapter, I promise.


	3. Exhale

He wakes to rain his first morning back. Heavy, the sounds of the drops on the roof soothing. It’s the rainy season, and the relief of seeing water falling from the sky rather than flaming rocks, or acid, or god knows what else, almost brings him to tears. He walks outside barefoot, digs his toes into the red mud, and turns his face up to the sky. The drops slide down his face, into his mouth, cool and slightly metallic. It tastes like Earth and he doesn’t notice he’s crying until he tastes the salt alongside the rain. 

When he turns back to go inside, his family stands clustered around the screen door, staring at him. Rachel and Marco’s eyes are wide, his mother has tears on her own cheeks. As he steps towards the door they all step back, clearing him a path. They’re silent, staring at him like he’s about to break apart and he’s supposed to be home, now, but he feels more lost than he felt on Altea. He retreats back to his room—nearly unchanged since he left for the Garrison, same old sheets on the same old twin bed, same posters on the walls, faded from the sun and weather damage while the house was unoccupied and nearly ruined during the Galra occupation, science fiction series he read as a kid lined up on the bookshelf. He doesn’t leave the room for the rest of the day, not even when his mother knocks softly on the door and implores him to come eat some dinner. He thinks about calling Allura. He thinks about leaving. But, he ought to give it at least a few days, right? Coming back was never going to be easy.

It’s not raining the next morning, but the clouds lie low, the ocean a dark pewter, moisture hanging heavy in the humid air. He follows his father outside after breakfast to the chicken coop, to the pen where they keep Kaltenecker now, to the orchard of avocados and bananas and mangoes. He doesn’t speak and his father, thankfully, doesn’t push him. He just hands him a basket to collect the eggs, the pail of milk to bring inside, a bucket of clover seed to sow in the tree wells of the orchard. He watches his hands carry out the familiar tasks with ingrained memory, a childhood full of them, back when he used to groan and complain about helping with farm chores. He used to think they were beneath him, that it was pointless to learn anything about farming when he’d be up in space before long.

Things change.

It starts raining in the afternoon, a real downpour, and his father leaves him in the orchard with a squeeze to his shoulder and a sad smile. Lance throws down the last of the seed and scuffs it into the soil with his feet before walking down the hill through the trees, breathing in the scent of mineral rain and green growing things. Their orchard runs down a slope to the road that fronts the beach. The resort that was here while he was growing up is abandoned, not rebuilt since the Galra left, but the beach is the same. He kicks off his shoes and squishes the wet sand between his toes.

He only came here once in that manic week after the war. Their house was still too damaged to stay in, and his father was trying to replant the fields, though in a miraculous stroke of luck the orchard had escaped unharmed, producing fruit for three years that no one ever ate. Most of his family was staying with Luis in his apartment in Havana, and Lance stayed with them but accompanied his father over to Varadero one day. The sight of his childhood home with broken windows and missing walls was enough to send him into a spiral of panic and he’d retreated to the beach and stayed there for most of the day until his father came to find him, sitting with the waves halfway up his legs as the tide rose. 

That day had been sunny and dry, kids running on the beach, people sunbathing, a paleta vendor with his cart walking up and down the beach. Almost like there had never been a war or an occupation. Today, dark clouds swirl low over choppy waves and his only companion is a lone, brave cormorant bobbing in the shallows. The scene matches his mood much better today than it did then.

The wind blows his sweaty hair off the nape of his neck and he sighs into it, staring out at the waves. How many times did he use the memory of this place as fuel to get through another day? How many promises to how many people did he make, promising to show them this beach after it was all over? Back when he thought the end of the war would mean everything would go back to the way it was before, like they wouldn’t all be changed forever, like the world itself would be barely recognizable. It’s laughable now. He told Allura everything about this place, couldn’t wait to show her. He’d laughingly planned a picnic they’d all have here together with Hunk, he’d told Keith, who had somehow never seen the ocean, that he would bring him here. Somehow, he’d always imagined his first visit back to Varadero to be with one of them at his side.

But here he is, alone.

The cormorant screeches and takes off into the wind. 

Really alone.

Eventually, he turns away from the waves and trudges back through the orchard, back up the hill to home. His mother clicks her tongue at him when he walks in the door and shoos him to the bathroom crying, “ _Dios, Leandro, ¡seca!_ ” His father smiles at him from the kitchen. Rachel steals the plantains off his plate like she did when they were kids and Marco slides him a beer and something loosens ever so slightly in his chest. That night, for the first time in months, he sleeps deep and long and doesn’t wake from any nightmares.

* * *

It’s slow, but he relearns himself. The rhythms of his body when he’s not running on adrenaline, the beat of his heart when it’s not thrumming in panic, the way it feels to sleep through a full night and wake with the sun falling across his face. Between rows of tomatoes and peppers, under the mango trees, in the arms of his family, he tiptoes his way back towards the Lance he was before the war.

But he can’t quite get there. Sometimes he still dreams of flying. Sometimes, he misses the Castle of Lions, the exploration, the excitement. And he misses them. Allura. Hunk. Keith. All of them. But every time he picks up the phone or contemplates a video call, he can’t think of anything he could say to them. What is there to say, after everything? What is there to say, to encapsulate what he feels?

So he stays silent. Doesn’t return calls. Rarely answers texts—only ever to Allura, or sometimes Hunk, reassuring them he’s alive, he’s okay, he’s doing well. Gets up early, with the sun, and falls asleep early, too. Sometimes sleeps through the night but usually manages three, maybe four, hours of sleep before he wakes screaming from nightmares—the same old ones, but no Allura to comfort him now, to whisper him back to sleep—and gets out of bed, walks down to the beach, stares at the waves. Sometimes, he falls asleep there and wakes with sand in his mouth. Sometimes he makes it back home to his own bed. Sometimes he never falls asleep at all, and watches the sun rise above the bay before walking home to breakfast, stiff and aching. His mother worries, he can tell. His whole family worries. His father tries to talk to him, once, but Lance shuts him down, shuts him out. None of the rest even try, after that, though sometimes he’s pulled out of nightmares by his mother’s hand on his forehead and finds some comfort in her arms.

He works. He prunes tomatoes, just like he dreamed of. He harvests mangos. He weeds and he hauls around irrigation pipes and he weeds more. He packs the truck up at 5 o’clock in the morning on Wednesdays and Saturdays and Mondays and sits behind a stall at the farmer’s market in town. All the old ladies who shop there knew him when he was young and call him Leandro and don’t seem to remember or care that he was part of that Voltron thing.

The old ladies call him Leandro. Juan at the pizza place with the good garlic knots calls him Leandro. Sebastián who farms the land adjacent to theirs calls him Leandro. His family calls him Leandro. Lance fades into the background, a memory of the Garrison, of embarrassment over where he came from, of mouths mangling the sounds of his native tongue. He lets it go. 

One night he dreams he’s on the Castleship. He’s in the training room. It’s the middle of the night. Keith stands in front of him, eyes wide.

“Come on,” he says. When Lance doesn’t move fast enough he gestures impatiently.

“Come on,” he repeats. “Let’s go.”

“Go where?”

Dream Keith rolls his eyes. “Don’t you hear the alarm? We have to go to the lions. Someone needs our help.” He turns away from Lance and walks out of the room. Lance reaches after him, knows that if they leave the room something terrible will happen, something horrible, and Keith will be gone…he manages to grip his hand, the warm tips of his fingers, and then Keith walks through the door, staring back at Lance with a confused expression, and in the hallway, dressed in a Galran uniform, another Lance lifts his gun and shoots Keith in the head and he falls back into Lance and then they’re falling through space, no suits, no helmets, Keith bleeding from a head wound in his arms and the lions are gone, there’s no hope of rescue, and he can’t breathe, and they’re dying, dying….

He sits up in bed, gasping, covered in sweat. On the bedside table, his tablet buzzes. He glances over at it.

_Incoming video call from Keith Kogane._

It’s 6:30 in the morning. The dull light of dawn filters through the window and lights on his trembling hands. He throws back the covers and ignores the tablet, buzzing away. Every time he blinks, Keith’s slack face, covered in blood, unfurls behind his eyelids.

He kicks his bedroom door as he leaves, hard enough to send a bloom of pain through his foot. It grounds him. No one else is up yet, not even his father, who usually rises early, too. He makes his way down the hallway to the kitchen, fills up their old kettle with water, sets it on the stove. Stares out the window towards the water in the distance. Someone left it open the night before and cool morning air plays over his face.

“I’m not there,” he murmurs to himself. “I’m on Earth. I’m in Cuba. I’m home. Today we have to harvest mangoes and after I’ll help Papa repair that fence. I’m not there.”

He can hear his tablet buzzing in his room from here. Someone calling back. He closes his eyes and plugs his ears with his fingers. Breathes the salty air. “I’m not there.”

He wonders how many Galran soldiers he killed with a shot to the head like that. How many kills under his belt? How many people never made it home thanks to his gun and his aim? It's hard to say they were all evil, now that he knows Kolivan and Krolia and Axca, met Lotor's uptight tutor who reminded him so much of his piano teacher growing up, worked with countless Galra since the war ended. He can't call an entire race evil, not when Keith comes from them. Most of the soldiers he killed were victims of a regime, too. He _murdered_ people.

“Not there. Not there. It’s over.”

A hand lands on his shoulder and he jumps, smashing his hip into the counter, hands falling away from his face. The dish rack next to the sink shakes and a mug, perched precariously, falls, rolls over the counter, and smashes on the floor.

“Fuck,” he says, “Oh, fuck. Sorry.” He drops to his knees to scrape up the shards but succeeds only in cutting his finger. The bright red of his blood against his skin, dropping onto the white ceramic of the mug, is too much. 

“No,” he whispers, fingers shaking, ceramic crunching under his legs as he slides against the cupboards. “Keith, no, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to.”

“Leandro,” someone says.

“No, no, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.”

“Leandro, _mijo_ , _respira_.”

“Keith…”

“No, it’s Papa. Keith isn’t here. You’re not there anymore. You’re home.”

“I killed him…”

“You didn’t. You’re having a flashback.”

“No…”

“Yes. Leandro, I’m going to touch you. Breathe.” A warm arm encircles his back. The crunch of broken ceramic. The scent of the sea.

“I—I had a dream…”

“Okay. It wasn’t real.”

“It felt real…”

“It wasn’t, I promise. You’re not there. Can you tell me where you are, Leandro?”

“I—Cuba. Home.”

“Yes. What did you do yesterday?”

“I…I can’t remember….”

“You woke up early to load the truck. You went to the farmer’s market. Do you remember? You told us Señora Diaz said our mangoes were the best she’s ever tasted. What did you do when you got home?”

“I…spread some manure in the northern field.”

“Good. And then?”

“I planted corn with you and Rachel.”

“Right. And after that?”

“I…I helped mama with dinner.”

“What did you make?”

“Moros.” He takes a deep, shaking breath. “And. Plantains.”

“You see? You’re here with us now. You’re safe.”

Lance blinks. Looks into his father’s eyes, at the bags under them. When did his face become more worry lines than laugh lines?

“¿ _Mijo?_ Are you with me? ¿ _Estás bien?”_

_“_ I’m so tired of these dreams.”

“I know, _mijo_ , I know.” His father puts an arm around him and draws him away from the smashed mug, pulls him close. They sit on the floor, backs up against the cupboards, and Lance curls into his father’s shoulder and cries.

When he’s finished and there’s a damp spot in his father’s shirt he sniffles and wipes his bloody finger on his shirt. “Sorry about the mug.”

“It’s okay, _mijo_.”

“Keith called me this morning.”

His father hums. “Did you answer?”

“No. It was right after I woke up from the dream where I shot him. I can’t talk to him. I can’t talk to any of them.”

His father furrows his brow. “I don’t think you should isolate yourself, Leandro. It’s good that you’re home and taking a break from all that, but you should still talk to them. They know what you went through better than we do. They might be able to help you in ways we can’t.”

He doesn’t answer, just stares at the patch of sunlight from the window reflecting on the yellow wall of their kitchen. 

“I’m a mess,” he says eventually.

“You’re not,” his father says gently. He levers himself up off the floor with a groan and presses a kiss to Lance’s hair. “You’re just healing.”

He starts to sweep up the shards of mug and waves Lance away when he offers to help.“Sit down,” he says. “The water’s almost ready. I’ll make some coffee.”  So Lance sits and holds a towel to his finger until the bleeding stops and drinks the coffee set in front of him. 

“Do you want to take a break today?” His father asks, sitting across from him, holding his own cup between the palms of his hands. 

He just shakes his head. If he doesn’t have any work to do who knows what pit he’ll fall into. “I’ll feed the chickens,” he offers, and rinses out his coffee mug, trudging outside towards the barn and the coop. It’s hot already, the sun burning off any morning chill as soon as it fully rose. He feeds the chickens. He feeds Kaltenecker and milks her. He grabs a hoe and starts weeding around the peppers. He does not think of his dream. He does not think of Keith. He does not think of anyone else. His cut finger throbs.

After lunch, he wanders back to his room instead of back to work and calls Keith before he can think his way through all the reasons why that’s a bad idea.

Keith answers breathless. “Lance?”

“Hey,” he says lamely. There’s shouting in the background, a loud crash. “Um…is now a bad time?”

“Uh—“ Keith breaks off and there’s a echoing boom and the sound of running footsteps. “No, I can talk for a few minutes.”

“Are you…are you in the middle of a battle or something?”

“No—well, sort of, but it’s fine. Negotiations just went downhill but we’ve got a handle on it."

He doesn’t know what to say. “Why the hell did you answer the phone?”

Keith sighs, exasperated. “I haven’t heard from you in weeks. No one has. I thought it might be important, but if you’re just going to ask me stupid questions I’ll hang up right now and get back to work.”

“You called me.”

Keith sighs again. “I was just checking in. Wanted to make sure things are going okay. You need to communicate with us sometimes.”

“That’s rich, coming from you.”

“I’m getting better about it! Shiro yelled at me enough. I’ve called you a bunch, you just never pick up.”

“Yeah, well…” he trails off, holding back a sigh of his own. Keith’s in the middle of a battle. He doesn’t really have much to complain about.

“It’s been fine.” He says. He doesn’t say _I dreamed I killed you last night_. He doesn’t say _I dream about you a lot_. He doesn’t say _I’m still having panic attacks at least once a week and part of me wishes I was in the middle of a battle like you are because then I could do something, shoot something, just let go…_

He doesn’t say any of that. 

Keith scoffs, and then he hears a loud intake of breath, a shout, and the telltale sound of clashing blades.

“Keith?!”

Nothing but Keith’s breathing, heavy and loud, for a few seconds, then—

“Yeah. It’s all good, don’t worry. But I should probably hang up. Listen, call Allura, would you? She’s worried about you. Or I’ll call you back when we’re done here, if you’ll actually answer.”

“Yeah,” Lance says numbly. “Listen, Keith—be careful, okay?”

“I always am,” Keith says softly, which is an outrageous lie, and then there’s a click and the line goes dead. Lance lowers the phone from his ear and stares out the window. He feels, if possible, worse. Thinking about Keith fighting some unknown enemy somewhere out in the universe this very second. He isn’t keeping up well enough with anyone to know where anyone is at any given time, or what they’re doing. Any of them could be in danger, and he’d never know. The thought sends chills down his spine. 

And then, of course, the feeling of uselessness washes through him. He should be out there, fighting next to Keith. He should be watching his back, watching all their backs like he did during the war. He shouldn’t be sitting on a farm in Cuba worrying about mending fences. What has he become?

He drops onto his bed and tries to quell the fears, the worries. Tries to quell the itching in his fingers, begging him to pick up a gun and shoot it. Tries to quell the feeling that he was never needed before and certainly isn’t now—they’re all doing just fine without him.

He falls asleep without really realizing it and wakes hours later, groggy and disoriented. His tablet displays a missed call from Keith from an hour earlier.

Keith will be angry he didn’t pick up. He should call him back.

Instead, he rolls over and goes back to sleep.

* * *

The alien makes their way through the crowd, six eyes locked on Lance, knife raised. Lance vaults over the table, tackles them. They roll around among the legs of guests. The alien pins him.

“What are you here for?” Lance asks. “Allura?”

The alien just laughs and digs the knife into Lance’s neck. He feels it slice deep, feels blood vessels and arteries burst under it, feels blood fill his mouth, but he’s not dead. The alien keeps laughing, pulls the knife out of his throat, waves it tauntingly in front of him. Blood drips onto his face.

On the blade, glowing purple beneath the blood, the symbol of the Galra Empire shines. Above him, the alien morphs into Honerva, dressed in her druid robes. She smiles, terrible and cold and leans down to whisper in his ear.

“You think this is over? Foolish boy. It’s only just begun.”

She raises the knife again and drives it down, deep into his chest, through his heart. 

He wakes, tangled in sheets soaked with sweat, a shrill pitch echoing in his ears, panting like he’s run a marathon. There’s a pounding on his door and it flies open, his mother running in. He realizes the loud sound in his ears is his own scream, his throat raw from it. She runs to him and he scrambles back, still tangled in sheets, to press against his headboard. He flings out his hands to keep her away. “No,” he chokes out, “no.”

“Lance, are you alright?”

“No, no—don’t come any closer. I can’t.”

She stops in her tracks, but stays where she is, arms outstretched to him. 

“I need—“ he gasps out, and pinches himself, hard. It hurts. This is real. He’s not bleeding out on the floor of the ballroom in Altea, he’s home in Cuba. But the dream brought a memory to the surface—the memory of the blade that alien held to his neck. He thought he’d seen a symbol on it, but brushed it off as nothing in the chaos that followed. But he’d never checked.

“I need to call Allura,” he says, pushing away sheets and tumbling out of bed. He stumbles, nearly falls, but his mother catches him. He flinches away from her touch and she lets him go, stepping out of his space. He fumbles for his tablet and nearly drops it, hands shaking too much to hit the buttons.

“Let me,” his mother says, holding out her hand. After a moment, he hands the tablet to her and she pulls up Allura’s contact information, hitting the button to call her before handing the tablet back to him.

“I’ll be right outside,” she says softly. “Come out when you’ve talked to her. You scratched yourself.”

He looks down at his arms. Sure enough, long red lines rise on the skin, a few of them beading with blood. He looks back at his mother and nods.

“Lance?” Allura’s voice comes tinny through the tablet speakers. She’s got her hair pulled back and the thin golden circlet she wears as a crown clutched in her hand where she holds a stack of papers to her chest. It looks like she’s walking down a hallway, hurrying somewhere. He’d forgotten how beautiful she is, the mere sight of her calms the panic running through his veins and soothes his heartbeat. 

He must look terrible, because alarm registers on her face. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” he says automatically. “Well, I mean, I had a dream. That’s why I look like this. Like shit. But listen, I forgot to check—that alien that tried to attack you, did anyone examine his blade after we detained him?”

She looks puzzled. It makes sense. The attack was over a month ago. “Yes, of course. It was confiscated and analyzed. That’s how we knew it had poison on it.”

“Did they look at all of them? All the weapons all of them had?”

Allura sighs and shoulders her way through a door. The video feed shakes for a moment as she sets down her armful of papers and drops into a chair. She looks to be in an empty conference room. “Yes, Lance. There was nothing remarkable about any of them. I promise. I looked at them myself.”

He deflates slightly, leaning against his dresser. “I—okay.”

Her brow wrinkles. “Why?”

“I thought—“ he swallows, mouth dry. “It sounds really stupid now. But I thought I saw a Galra symbol on the blade the one cut my neck with. It was just a split second, but I…I thought I saw it.”

“Oh,” Allura says. She relaxes back into her chair, like she’s relieved. “Is that all? It could be. They could have just been old Galra weapons.”

Lance shakes his head. “I just…had a bad feeling about it.”

“Lance, the Galra Empire is gone. They are no longer a threat. Those attackers—did you ever hear the full explanation?”

He shakes his head. He’d been so out of it those last few days on Altea he barely knew what was going on around him, and he hadn’t wanted to think about the attack, anyway. And, since then, he’s been…isolating himself on Earth.

“They were from a small rebel faction dissatisfied with how the Alliance has been organizing itself. Most of the members are from some far-flung, very isolated planets and sectors that haven’t had a lot of involvement in negotiations. The few that attacked that night were acting alone, it wasn’t a coordinated attack with the rest of the group.” She sighs, looking suddenly tired. “They were right to be unhappy. We weren’t handling things fairly. We had a meeting recently with some of them and figured out some ways to make it better.”

“You—you _met_ with them?”

“Well, not the ones that attacked, obviously, but others from their group. It went well. But Lance, it’s not—they’re not Galra, alright? Try to put that out of your mind.”

He sighs and nods, breaking eye contact. She squints through the screen. “Is it night there? Did you just have this nightmare?”

He nods again. It’s pointless to try to lie when it’s pitch dark in his room, the only light from the glow of the tablet and the light creeping in through the doorway from where his mother turned on the lamp in the hallway.

She frowns. “You’re still having them, then? The nightmares?”

“You aren’t?” he retorts, sounding angrier than he means to.

“Of course. But not as often, anymore.”

“Neither am I,” he lies. He’s having them just as much, if not more. “Tonight was just…a bad night.”

She leans her chin on her hand and stares into his eyes. He feels like she’s taking him apart, right through the screen.

“I miss you,” she murmurs. “I wish you’d talk to me more.”

He shrugs. “I don’t have much to say.” That much, at least, is the truth. “But I miss you, too.”

“What if I visit in a few quintants?” 

He starts. “Wha—really?”

She nods. “I deserve some time off soon, I think. Just for a few quintants.” She squints at him, must see the uncertainty in his expression, because her face tightens imperceptibly. “You don’t have to say yes, if you’re busy. Or. Not ready.”

“No—no, you should come.”

She smiles at him and it looks relieved. “Wonderful.”

“I—yeah. Yeah. Hey, I can finally show you Varadero Beach.”

Her eyes crinkle as she smiles wider. “I can’t wait.”

“Yeah. That’ll be—that’ll be good.” It will be, he tells himself. To have her by his side. To feel her warmth again.

“I love you,” she says. “I’ll see you soon.”

His throat closes around the words. “I—yeah, you too.”

She signs off, looking pleased. He tries to push down the discomfort swirling in his stomach, the feeling that he’s missing something, she’s missing something, they’re all missing something. They can’t be, can they?

* * *

She shows up three days later, bright and beautiful, and throws herself into his arms. She flies a pod right onto the beach, which alarms local authorities who try to arrest her before Lance manages to explain who she is. He has to make three calls to the Garrison, where both Shiro and Iverson are ready to kill Allura for not following protocol, but she couldn’t care less. Anywhere else in the universe, she can do whatever she wants and she doesn’t seem keen to bend to Earth’s rules, so she doesn’t.

“You look good,” she tells him, holding him at arm’s length and looking him up and down. He blushes. He’s self conscious, a bit—he’s wearing dirty work clothes and his hair is a curly mess, untamable in the humidity just as it was when he was growing up. She showed up before he expected her, and he didn’t have time to clean up. His fingertips are black and sharp with the scent of tomatoes. She insists he take her on a tour of the farm and seems delighted by it all, by the fields, the chickens, the sound of the surf, Kaltenecker in her pen. They stop, eventually, in the orchard. The red of the clover Lance planted a few days after his return is the exact same shade as juniberries.

“It’s beautiful,” she says, looking through the trunks where the afternoon sunlight slants, reaching fingers of light. “I should have come sooner.”

He shrugs, leaning against an avocado tree. “You’ve been busy.” There are a million things he wants to say to her but they’re all caught up in his throat. He wants to cry. He wants to kiss her.

Instead, he plucks a ripe avocado from the branch above him and holds it out. “Have you ever tried one of these?”

She shakes her head and takes it, scrutinizing the rough skin. She brings it to her mouth and he laughs, holding out a hand to stop her. She is so similar to a human sometimes he forgets that she didn’t grow up with things like avocados.

“No—no, I’ll cut it for you. You don’t eat the outside.” He fishes a pocketknife out of his pocket—the closest thing to a weapon he carries, these days—and slices it open, exposing the pale green flesh. He hands it back to her. “You eat the soft part, in the middle.”

She takes a bite, squeezing it out of the skin, and her eyes narrow, then widen. “It’s interesting,” she says. “Like xaka, but not sweet.”

He remembers the taste of xaca, its yellow, custardy flesh, the mellow sweetness that lingers on the tongue. A bolt of longing like homesickness runs through him. He misses Altea.

Is this what it will be for him, from now on? Always missing some place? Always missing someone? Never quite settled?

He swallows the sadness down. “Yeah. Kind of like that.”

She smiles at him, green on her teeth, and he has to turn away from her to hide the sudden prickle of tears crowding his eyes. “We should get back. My parents are making lunch.”

She follows him, hurrying to catch up. “We should talk, Lance,” she says when she falls into step next to him. 

“I know,” he mumbles. “After lunch.”

“When are you coming back?”

“I don’t know.”

“Lance—“

“I don’t _know_ , Allura!” She flinches back from his tone. He takes a deep breath, fights to stay calm. “Just—after lunch. Please?"

She softens. “Yes. I—I’m sorry.”

“No, I shouldn’t have— _I’m_ sorry.”

They walk in silence for a few paces. Then she reaches over and touches the earring where it swings against his neck. “You’re still wearing it.”

“Yeah,” He replies. “Of course.”

She smiles at him, concerned, pleased, a little timid. They walk silently the rest of the way back. Lunch passes in pleasant conversation that Lance largely avoids. Allura regales them with stories of the latest alliance news, Coran’s crazy projects, negotiations gone right and terribly wrong. Lance feels out of place and tight in his own skin—his knee bounces incessantly even though he tries to still it, his fingertips tap an uneven rhythm on the table. More than once, his mother shoots him a concerned glance. Allura sits like a queen, tall and proud in their tiny yellow kitchen, and he can’t reconcile the past with the present. 

Allura helps his mother with the dishes when they’re done eating. It’s ridiculous—his mother essentially has to teach her how dish soap works and it takes ten times longer than it should. He realizes that Allura’s probably never even done dishes before, which again sends him into the spiral of _what the hell is going on_ —him, and a queen. A boy who grew up doing farm chores and a woman who’s never done dishes.

Then again, Altea probably had fancier dishwashers ten thousand years ago than Earth does now, so odds are nobody had to do dishes on Altea, but it’s the principle of the matter.

After the dishes are finally done and Allura left only slightly damp, they walk down to the beach. Clouds build out over the water, far away still, but it’ll be raining by nightfall. 

“So,” Allura says quietly after awhile. “You’re not…planning on coming back soon? I thought maybe you would come back with me.”

His stomach twists. “Now? No, I—no. I don’t think I’m ready yet.”

She sighs, looking out at the waves. “It’s been almost two phoebs.”

He looks down at his hands, twisting in his lap. “I know.”

“So…? When will you be ready?”

“I’m still having dreams,” he says slowly. “And, like…not panic attacks, really, but the littlest things remind me of—of the war, and battles, and I don’t think I could even get in a ship right now, Allura. It—it’s terrifying. The thought of going back up there. Not, like, _being_ in Altea, but getting there, flying through space again—“ his fists clench involuntarily at the thought. “It scares me.”

He feels ashamed to admit it out loud. Allura sighs and touches his hand with the tips of her fingers. “I’m sorry,” she says.

He just shrugs. There’s nothing to say, really.

“Have you been seeing anyone? I mean, talking to anyone?”

He shrugs again. His parents have suggested the same thing many times and he’s resisted them, even gotten angry with them. Who, aside from his team, would understand anything about what he’s going through? How is a therapist who’s never fought in a space war, piloted a sentient robot cat, killed people, watch people be killed, ever help?

“I’ve thought about it,” he concedes eventually.

“There are people on Altea…something that might help you…”

“ _You_ told me to come home.”

She throws her hands up, exasperation rising at last. “Yes! For a visit! Not to stay! You’re neglecting your duties now!”

He snorts. “What duties?”

“You’re a coalition leader! A diplomat!”

“I sat by your side and backed up anything you said. You don’t need me.”

“That’s not true—“

“It _is_.”

“Lance…you don’t belong here! You belong out there, with me.” She points at the sky, earth blue and dotted with clouds that would predict hails of rocks and fire on Altea and promise only brief respite from the sun here. “With _us_ ,” she continues. “This isn’t you, Lance.”

He’s unused to being called that, now. With a jolt, he realizes he never told her his real name.

“You have no idea who I am,” he says to her, a strange numbness settling over him. He ignores the hurt on her face and barrels on. “You’ve only known me for a few years. You only knew who I was up there. You don’t know who I was before, you don’t know me here. You can’t tell me where I belong.”

“Lance, I—“

“I’m not going back to Altea,” he says, speaking the truth he didn’t know before this moment. “I’m here now.”

“Lance, don’t be like this. You can’t stay here forever, you can’t ignore everything else out there.”

“You can’t tell me what to do.” He hears his own voice as if from far away, cold and calm and distant, and he stands, brushing sand off his shorts. “Not even as a queen, Allura. I’ll see you later.”

He leaves her like that, sitting on the sand and staring after him, mouth slightly open. He walks straight to the station in Santa Marta and takes a transport to Havana, shows up at Luis’ place with nothing but the clothes on his back and some change in his pocket and stays for almost a week. The morning after he leaves, his mother calls, bewildered, saying Allura left the night before and is everything okay?

He tells her yes. He tells her not to worry. He tells her he’ll be home soon. Home.

Allura leaves angry.

He’s left angry.

People message him. Hunk. Shiro. Keith.

Allura, a week after she leaves. He doesn’t answer her call.

Veronica visits from the Garrison and stays for a few days. She asks Lance pointed questions—Shiro probably handed her a checklist before she left. He deflects most of them, answers a few, tries to pretend he’s just been busy, tries to pretend things are normal. He starts taking sleeping pills before bed every night. They leave him sluggish and groggy in the mornings and keep him trapped in his dreams, but he doesn’t wake up screaming anymore. His mother doesn’t have to run down the hall to his door every other night. Veronica can report back and say he seems fine. It’s better for everyone.

Allura calls while she’s there, and Lance has to answer because otherwise Veronica would be alerted that things are very much _not okay_ , so he picks up. She tells him she’s sorry. He tells her he’s sorry too, that things are going okay, he’s just working. Going to the beach. Running in the mornings. She seems somewhat satisfied by the time they hang up. He ignores everyone else. Veronica can tell them how he is. 

Days flow into each other. He’s numb with routine. He alternates between hating the farm, the tiny town, the close press of his family and panicking at the thought of leaving. He withdraws further, starts spending more time alone, seeks out the tedious tasks no one else wants to do so he can do them alone. Just him and the plants. He’s not sleeping much at all anymore. He spends most nights sitting on the beach or swimming in the warm water, letting it cradle him as he floats, staring up at the moon and the stars, at the vast skies where his friends are scattered, living their lives.

* * *

 

**_Group Message_ **

_11:11 Aug 23 21XX_

**_Takashi_ ** _: Anyone heard from Lance?_

**_H-Man_ ** _: NO. I’m really worried, guys. He usually at least gives me a text back, but I haven’t heard from him in weeks_

**_Gremlin_ ** _: is he confirmed alive even_

**_Emo_ ** _: Shut up Pidge. Veronica was there last week_

**_Emo_ ** _: who put my name as emo thats so stupid_

**_Gremlin_ ** _: it’s who you are keith_

**_Takashi_ ** _: right ANYWAY, Lance?_

**_Gremlin renamed the group: Lance Protection Squad_ **

**_Gremlin edited the group message_ **

**_Queen of (our) Hearts_** _:_ _I was able to contact him and talk for a bit. he seemed alright, but rather absent._

**_Emo_ ** _: When????_

**_Emo_ ** _: how do i edit group messages i didn't know you could do that_

**_Queen of (our) Hearts_ ** _: a movement ago, when Veronica was there. That may be why he answered._

**_Daddy_ ** _: Veronica seems concerned about him_

**_Daddy edited the group message_ **

**_Takashi_** _:_ _Absolutely not, Pidge_

**_Emo edited the group message_ **

**_Keith_** _:_ _ha figured it out_

**_Keith_ ** _: I have time off in a few quintants. I’ll stop by_

**_Queen of (our) Hearts_ ** _: I’m not sure that’s the best idea. He seems to want his space_

**_Keith_ ** _: none of us except for you have heard from him in ages and all he’s giving you are excuses and small talk. i’m gonna make him talk to at least one of us._

**_Keith_ ** _: come on guys this is so out of character for him i think he needs to be checked on in person_

**_Takashi_ ** _: Might be a good idea. But don’t push him, Keith. Be willing to back down_

**_H-Man_ ** _: yeah, Lance doesn’t respond well to being pushed too hard. you have to let him come to you, ultimately_

**_H-Man_ ** _: wish i could go_

**_Keith_ ** _: i know that i wont push him I'm just going to make sure he’s not self destructing_

**_H-man_ ** _: I know you won’t on purpose, but you guys are good at pushing each other’s buttons…just be careful_

**_Gremlin edited the group message_ **

**_Kogayne_** _:_ **** _I KNOW, Hunk. i can control myself_

**_Kogayne_ ** _: god FUCKING DAMMIT pidge_

**_Kogayne edited the group message_ **

**_THE WORST HUMAN IN THE WORLD_** _:_ _you cant deny it bitch_

**_Kogayne_ ** _: I hate you_

**_Kogayne_ ** _: did you lock this in somehow? why can’t i change it_

**_Takashi_ ** _: and on that note, I’m going to bed._

* * *

“Leandro,” his mother’s voice floats down to him. He looks up, squinting towards the house. He’s down in the lower field, mixing manure into beds and smoothing them out to plant beans later. He can see his mother standing on the back porch, a figure next to her. He squints, but can’t make out who it is.

“You have a visitor!” His mother shouts, and the figure next to her steps off the porch and starts making their way down towards Lance. A chill settles into his stomach. It has to be one of them, if it’s specifically a visitor for him.

The person gets closer and Lance’s stomach drops out and lands on the ground between his feet. He tightens his hands on the handle of his rake, bracing himself. 

Keith looks him up and down when he reaches him and Lance fidgets self consciously. He knows he looks different, hair longer and curling slightly in the humidity, a wide sun hat pulled low over his brow. He’s lost some muscle definition, farming strengthening some parts of his body while the muscles honed by brutal training have fallen by the wayside. He’s dark from the sun, much darker than he’d ever been in space. He also probably has mud on his face, and he’s wearing a threadbare t-shirt that says ¡DANZA VARADERO! in bright pink, bubbly letters.It’s probably not a super impressive sight, and it’s definitely not how he was hoping to present himself when he finally reunited with one of the paladins.

Keith, on the other hand, looks as cool and collected as ever, black t-shirt, dark jeans, hair falling around his face. It's possible he's an inch taller, too, which is infuriating.

“Leandro, huh?” Keith says, which is a pretty inadequate way to start whatever this conversation is going to be. “You never told me that.” 

“Never came up,” Lance replies. “Why are you here?” He might as well be blunt.

“I’m here because you won’t answer your fucking phone and someone had to come make sure you’re still alive.”

“I’m alive. Clearly.”

“It’s been months, Lance. We all assumed you’d be back on Altea by now.”

He shrugs, doesn’t meet his eyes. Keith stares at him. Lance focuses on the soil beneath his rake. 

“What are you even doing, Lance?” Keith asks eventually.

“Breaking up the soil. We’re going to put seeds in this bed. If the soil is too chunky, the seeds can’t push through it.”

Keith crouches down and takes up a handful of soil. Lance stops for a moment, watching as Keith squeezes it, dropping it back to the earth with a look of mild interest on his face. Then he sighs and stands up again.

“That’s not what I meant. I mean, what are you doing here? On a farm, Lance? I don’t care what you say, you should be out there with Allura, or at the Garrison—I know for a fact both Shiro and Pidge have reached out to you offering jobs—or, hell, even helping me. We’re doing good work. But instead you’re down here, smashing chunks of soil and not answering your phone.”

Lance grits his teeth and starts smashing again, refusing to meet Keith’s eyes. “I think, after all that, I deserve a break. We all do. I’m just the only one taking it, apparently.”

“You don’t belong here, Lance.”

“I’m with my family, Keith. It’s the only place I belong anymore.”

Keith makes a noise of frustration and it’s so familiar Lance looks up again and finds himself caught in the intensity of Keith’s eyes, staring at him. 

“Don’t say that,” Keith says. “Not after everything.”

Lance just shakes his head and goes back to raking, walking slowly along the bed. Keith follows, dogged, still talking. Since when did Keith talk so much?

“We’re all just worried. Why aren’t you talking to anyone? Not even Hunk, Lance? He’s practically sick with worry; he’s impossible to be around.”

“I haven’t got anything to say, especially when all any of you have to say to me is that I’m wasting my time.”

“You _are_. You’ve had enough time. All the rest of us are working.”

Lance gestures to the farm around him. “What exactly do you call this, then?”

Keith rolls his eyes. “You know what I mean. Alliance work. Important work. Putting the universe back together work.”

Lance stares at him. Keith has no idea. He doesn’t understand waking up early to put in hours of work before the sun is too hot, he doesn’t understand sweat dripping down your back as you weed through endless rows of peppers, he doesn’t understand the pain at the base of your neck after you’ve spent all day looking up, picking mangoes, he doesn’t understand the way your back feels permanently bowed in half after a day picking rocks out of a field. He doesn’t understand any of it.

“Are you telling me this isn’t important work? I’m growing food. I’m back in my community. I’m doing _good work_ , Keith. Varadero and Santa Marta got just as fucked up as any place the Galra occupied. I’m helping rebuild. Why isn’t that _important_?”

Keith winces. “You know what I mean. You could be more useful out there, working with Allura.”

“No,” Lance hisses. “No, Keith, I couldn’t. I wasn’t doing shit there. I was useless. At least I can see the difference I’m making here.” He sighs and runs a dirty hand through his hair, further mussing it. He finds he doesn’t care what it looks like anymore. “Fuck, Keith, just because you hate Earth for some reason doesn’t mean everyone does. Doesn’t mean it doesn’t need help, too. So fuck off. Just because you don’t see the value in what I’m doing—none of you do, apparently—doesn’t mean it doesn’t have any. Just—fuck off!”

Keith looks pale, but then again, he always looks pale and he’s especially washed out under the bright sun of Cuba. He looks out of place, black and white, two dimensional. “Lance, I—“

“No,” he cuts him off. “No, I don’t need your shit right now, Keith. I have work to do. Leave me alone.”

Keith opens his mouth, poised to argue, but something stops him. He closes it again, stares at Lance for a long moment, then shakes his head and turns, trudging away through the field. He feels a spark of satisfaction—Keith actually listened to him!—but it’s soured by an uncomfortable twisting in his stomach, a strange feeling of dissatisfaction, of—loneliness, maybe?—that follows him through the rest of the day. Keith isn’t around at dinner, and he thinks he must have left. All Lance has done lately is drive people away. He can’t sleep that night, lying awake, blinking at the stars outside his window.

But in the morning, when he stumbles into the kitchen before dawn breaks to make coffee before market, he sees Keith, a dark silhouette in the yard, looking towards the ocean. He sticks his head out the back door. 

“What are you doing up this early?”

Keith turns to him and Lance sees he’s wearing his jacket and has his rucksack slung over his back. He looks surprised to see him.

“I was thinking I should leave,” Keith says, shoulders lifted nearly to his ears, arms wrapped around himself. It’s not cold in the slightest, but Lance recognizes this as Keith’s self-defense posture. He’s uncomfortable. Unhappy.

“Thought you’d sneak out under cover of darkness? Where were you last night, anyway?”

Keith shrugs. “I didn’t—I thought it might be better if we didn’t talk again. I didn’t want to make you more angry.”

Lance snorts. “You wouldn’t have done a good job on your assignment, then.”

Keith squints at him through the dim light. “What?”

“You didn’t fool me, man. I know the others probably sent you here to talk some sense into me or something. You’re not one to give up that easily.”

Keith looks at him for a long moment. “No one sent me. I sent myself.”

Lance laughs out loud. “Bullshit.”

Keith’s arms go back around himself. “I was worried, too.” Something in his posture silences Lance’s comeback. They stare at each other for a moment, through the gloom.

“You don’t have to,” he says eventually.

“What?” Keith asks. “Worry?”

“Leave,” he says, surprising himself, because all he’d wanted Keith to do the day before was leave. Now, in the wake of his anger, he feels hollow and wrinkled, like a wrung out rag left to dry. Allura left angry. He doesn’t want Keith to leave angry, too.

Keith raises a single eyebrow. “Thought you wanted me gone?”

“I was angry. I just—I mean, if you want to go see Shiro, I’m not keeping you here. I don’t care what you do.”

Keith’s expression shutters and he shakes his head slightly, stuffing his hands into his pockets. “What are _you_ doing up this early, anyway? I thought you liked your beauty sleep.”

Lance sticks out his tongue. “Farmer’s market. Have to pack up the truck and be there before seven. I’m on farming time now. You know, all that unimportant, lazy work.”

Keith’s eyes flick away. “I didn’t mean that.”

“What did you mean, then?”

“I—“

“Tell you what,” Lance interrupts him. “You can help pack and set up. Then I’ll forgive you for being a shithead. Sound fair?”

Keith rolls his eyes and shrugs. “Fair enough. I told Shiro I wouldn’t be there until the quin—day after next, anyway. Might as well help out if you need it.”

Lance claps his hands together. “Good. Gonna make some coffee first. Stop brooding and come inside."

Keith perks up as he follows Lance into the kitchen. “Coffee?”

“Yep. Got much of that on Daibazaal?”

Keith licks his lips. “No…coffee…I haven’t had any in a long time.”

“Guess Earth has its perks after all, then. Prepare to be amazed. Cuban coffee is a whole different experience.”

He busies himself making the coffee and Keith slides into a seat at the table, quietly, like he’s trying to avoid detection. He catches glimpses of him out of the corner of his eye, dark hair unbrushed and falling over his shoulder, peering curiously at the family photos on the wall. Allura seemed to out of place in this room, and so should Keith, really, but instead it seems like he belongs.

It’s a strange thought, unsettling for some reason he can’t quite pinpoint, and he pushes it aside as he sets a cup of coffee in front of Keith.

“Milk? Sugar?”

Keith shakes his head, leaning forward to inhale the aroma. He groans, and that thing stirs again in the pit of Lance’s stomach.

“Try it.”

Keith takes a sip and holds it in his mouth for a long time, tasting it before he swallows. He grins up at Lance, uninhibited and happy. 

“God,” he says. “Real coffee.”

Lance slides into the seat across from him with his own cup. “They don’t have anything like it on Daibazaal?”

“Just Shala. Like on the Castleship, and Altea. Galrans don’t really have anything like caffeine. I don’t think their biology works that way. I mean, I never felt like coffee gave me energy, but I loved the taste.”

Lance grimaces, remembering the rank taste of the Altean tea. “Shala. Not the same.”

Keith sticks out his tongue a little, the gesture of disgust ridiculously childlike on his face. “Not at all.”

“So,” Lance grins at him. “You like it, then?”

Keith rolls his eyes and takes another sip. “I’m not going to keep showering you with compliments, if that’s what you’re after.”

“No, I’m just honored I got one half-compliment out of you.” He relishes Keith’s quick grin.

They finish their coffee, taking some to go while they pack the truck and unload it at the market. Keith watches him speak in rapid fire Spanish to the customers with a bemused expression as he restocks piles of fruit. Around nine, Señora Ramírez from the stall around the corner brings him his customary fruit juice—guava, today—and shoots her eyebrows into her graying hairline when she sees Keith.

“ ¿ _Es ese el Black Paladin_?” she asks, and Lance is fiercely grateful that Keith doesn’t speak Spanish. “ _ ¿Por qué él está aqui? Lidera una organización humanitaria,  _ _¿correcto?_ "

Typical. No one blinked an eye when Lance showed up back here but the minute the famous Keith shows his face, everyone goes wild.

_“Si,”_ Lance says, taking the offered drink. _“El es,_ uh-"

“ _Estoy de vacaciones_ ,” Keith slides in with perfect Spanish, pulling up next to Lance with an outstretched hand. _“Mucho gusto. El jugo se ve delicioso.”_

Señora Ramírez blushes and stammers fumbling to clasp Keith’s hand before flapping back to her stall to get him a juice, too. Lance rounds on him.

“Since when were you _charming_?” he accuses. “And since when did you know Spanish? You—you’ve been listening in this whole time!”

“I grew up in Texas, Lance,” Keith says patiently, stealing his juice and taking a sip. “And you’ve just been talking about prices and avoiding questions about that nice girl who was here a few weeks ago—Allura, I’m assuming?”

Lance’s mood plummets. “Presumably.”

Keith’s tone is teasing. He probably doesn’t know about their fight. “Presumably? You don’t know?”

Señora Ramírez returns, breathless, with juice for Keith. Lance turns away while he thanks her, busying himself tidying displays that don’t need tidying, hoping to avoid the subject. It doesn’t work.

“Allura?” Keith prompts after Señora Ramírez leaves, still blushing, slurping noisily at his juice. 

“Yeah,” Lance says dully. 

Keith gives him a long look, then glances away. “She mentioned coming to visit.”

“She did,” Lance acknowledges, moving to help Señor Pérez, who buys three cases of tomatoes every market day for his restaurant. “It didn’t go very well.”

“What happened?” At Lance’s expression, Keith backtracks. “We don’t have to talk about it.”

Lance shrugs, dropping down in the folding chair behind the cash box. “She wanted me back on Altea. Said the same thing you did. That I don’t belong here, and so on. She thought I’d be ready by now.”

Keith leans against the table, juice forgotten. “I’m sorry I said that. It’s not—that wasn’t really what I meant.”

“You said that already. What did you mean, then?”

“Everything else I said. We're worried about you. You’re not talking to any of us. No one can tell if you’re doing okay, if you actually just want to stay here or if you’re just avoiding all of us for some reason. That’s probably what Allura meant, too.”

“You don’t know what Allura meant,” he mumbles.

“She cares about you,” Keith replies. “She’s worried. Everyone is.”

“Are _you_?”

Keith looks vaguely affronted. “Lance, you literally never shut up during the entire war, so yeah, sudden radio silence from you is kind of concerning.”

“Aww, mullet. I didn't think you cared.” He breaks his gaze and looks down at the ground. “I really didn't think anyone would notice that much.”

“We know you, Lance. Obviously we’re going to notice if you’re acting weird.”

“I didn’t want anyone to be worried.”

“Tough. That’s what you get when you have friends.”

Lance sighs and looks down at his hands. Dirt crusted under his fingernails, the calluses on his pointer finger-his trigger finger-faded and softened, replaced with calloused palms where the handle of a hoe digs in. 

“I have dreams still,” he says.

Keith makes a low noise. “So do I.”

“I dream about getting into a shuttle to go back to Altea, or piloting my own pod. I leave Earth’s atmosphere and the second I’m clear it blows up behind me, completely gone. Or the shuttle falls apart and I’m suffocating in deep space, far away from anything I know. Or I can’t pilot, and I crash. Almost every night, I have at least one dream like that. And then…thinking about _actually_ getting into a shuttle or pod and leaving, I—I can’t. I can’t do it.”

Keith looks at him steadily through the whole speech, not breaking eye contact even as Lance wavers and his voice fails him. Keith just looks. Listens.

“It’s okay, Lance,” he says softly, after Lance finally breaks their gaze to stare back down at his hands. “You don’t have to leave if you’re not ready. You don’t ever have to leave if you really don’t want to. We just want to hear from you sometimes.”

“I feel bad,” he whispers. Then, so quiet he can barely hear himself, “I feel weak.”

Keith lets out a gust of air, a shocked _whoosh_ , and stays silent for a moment. Lance wonders if he didn’t hear him. He kind of hopes he didn’t.

“You’re not,” Keith says firmly. “Lance. Look at me.”

He raises his gaze slowly and meets Keith’s eyes. Always so strange, those eyes, deep purple flecked with gold and blue, like no eyes he’s seen before. They’re burning into him. 

“You,” Keith says, “are not weak.”

“I—“ he starts, but Keith interrupts him. 

“I’m sorry I was an asshole yesterday. I don’t understand why you’re here still, but you’re right. I don’t love Earth like you do; and the only thing I have here to come back to is Shiro. And you, and the Holts. It’s not—it’s not the same for me. It never has been. But I understand where you’re coming from. And—the dreams. I understand that. I deal with it by working and not stopping long enough to think about it. You deal with it by being home. I shouldn’t have been a dick about it. I’m sorry if I made you feel bad.”

He opens his mouth to say something but Keith is still going. 

“You’re not weak, though, okay? You’re one of the strongest people I know, Lance.”

“I—uh, what?”

“You. Are. Strong.”

“Uh…I mean. Thanks. Thanks for saying that.”

“Do you believe me?”

He nods hesitantly. “I mean, I know. In a lot of ways. I just feel so shitty sometimes. And I shouldn’t be afraid of flying. It’s all we did for the last three years.”

Keith shrugs. “Yeah, but it’s different now.”

For a long moment, they just look at each other. A breeze blows a strand of Keith’s hair across his face and he blows it away from his mouth. A trickle of sweat drips its way down Lance’s back. “I miss the lions,” he says quietly. He hasn’t voiced this before, though he knows they all must be feeling it. “If Blue was around, or Red, I think I could fly. I could fly with them.”

Keith finally breaks his gaze and turns away, hair falling in front of his face, obscuring his expression. He looks out at the busy market. “Yeah,” he says, and his voice sounds seconds from breaking. “Me too.”

Later, as they pack up the leftovers into the truck, Keith says, “You should talk to Shiro.”

“About what?”

“I know he’s tried to get you over to the Garrison. You wouldn’t have to live there or anything, just visit. Maybe teach a seminar. It might be good, just to do something different for a bit.”

He waits for the anger to well up, the stubborn spite that comes out whenever anyone tries to make a suggestion like that. The anger he’d felt when he saw Shiro’s first email about it, and his second, and his third. It doesn’t come.

“Yeah,” he says. “Maybe.”

“Just hear him out.” Keith says. “Think about it.”

“I will,” he says, and he thinks he's telling the truth.

* * *

**_Group Message: Lance Protection Squad_ **

_21:23 August 29, 21XX_

**_Kogayne_** _:_ _He seems okay. Dealing with stuff. He promised he’d stay in better touch_

**_H-man_** _:_ _GOOD. thanks for going Keith_

**_Kogayne_ ** _: no big deal. we might be able to get him to come to Altea for the anniversary. he said he was thinking about it. but he doesn’t want to fly_

**_H-man_** _:_ _Understandable_

**_Takashi_** _:_ _Good to hear, Keith. Did you talk to him about the Garrison?_

**_Gremlin_** _:_ _MAKE HIM COME HERE_

**_Kogayne_** _:_ _I told him to call you. maybe send him another message but i think he will_

**_Takashi_** _:_ _Will do. I’ll see you tomorrow, Keith_

**_Kogayne_** _:_ _yeah_

* * *

Allura calls and apologizes again, like it’s her fault. She must have talked to Keith.

“It’s _my_ fault,” he tells her. She’s in a conference room again, distractedly eating lunch. She’s cut her hair short, the longest curls just brushing her chin, and she looks good. Lighter, happier. Like she’s moving on. He misses her so much he aches. “I flew off the handle. I should have just talked to you.”

“I’m just glad you talked to Keith, Lance,” she says, and guilt twists in his stomach. “I was worried. We all were.”

“I know,” he says. “I’m sorry.”

“You don’t really have anything to be sorry for, either. It’s just—we all have problems. We all have to heal in the ways best for us. I just want us to talk to each other. We’re a family now, no?”

“Yes,” he says, warmth replacing the heavy guilt in his belly and pooling up around his heart. “You are. I know I talk about my family a lot, and I’m happy to be here with them—I need to be, but. You are my family too.”

She smiles at him. “I know. Why don’t we try a visit again?”

He smiles back. “Yeah. That sounds good.”

She comes a week later, having fully cleared her visit with all national and international authorities first, and he picks her up in Havana so she doesn’t cause a scene on the beach again. He shows her the old town, they eat dinner at the market, they stay the night with Luis and Lisa before heading back to Varadero the next morning. It’s strange and wonderful, the Earth date he always wanted to take her on and never got to, the time with her shiny and perfect like he’s watching a film of his own life. Through the whole thing, though, the food, the walk on the beach, the kisses and the energetic sex where they let out three months worth of pent-up longing, something twitches at the back of his mind, something that says _this isn’t quite right_ , something that says _this is it, buddy. Enjoy it._

On the second night in Varadero they take a walk on the beach. They find the spot they sat before and settle down. This time, there are no clouds in sight and the sunset is brilliant against the water.

When he opens his mouth, he’s not entirely sure what’s going to come out, but he knows, somehow, the way they will end.

“I feel like…” He trails off, looking out at the water. His stomach twists unpleasantly, heat prickles behind his eyes. “I don’t know. I feel like things are different.”

Next to him, Allura sighs. Her short hair brushes the top of her back as she leans her head back to look at the sky. “I know,” she says.

“Between us, I mean.”

“I know.”

Lance sighs too and closes his eyes. It’s harder than he expected, putting these feelings into words. He’s not sure how to do it, what he wants to say. How can he define what Allura is to him, after they went through a war together, after she was his steadiness in the aftermath, after they held each other through night terrors and panic attacks and hours and hours of crying? Whatever they have between them, it’s not something that can just be _over_. But, at the same time, he knows whatever they had can’t be maintained in the way it was before. In his slow efforts to reclaim the parts of him the war destroyed, he became a different Lance than the one who fell in love with her. And a different Lance than she fell in love with.

She saves him by speaking first. She’s always saving him, time after time.

“I feel…” she breaks off, clears her throat. “I feel like we’re putting pressure on ourselves to keep things the same when things aren’t the same anymore. I think it’s hurting us both. We can’t force something to stay the same.”

“Yeah,” he says. He opens his mouth to say more, but his throat closes around the words.

“I need someone close to me,” she continues. “Just hearing your voice or seeing you through a screen…it’s not the same. It doesn’t work for me. And if I knew you were coming back soon, or I thought I could come here, it would be different, but…”

“I can’t,” he says. “I can’t come back yet, and you can’t come here, I know.”

“Right,” she says softly, looking down at the sand.

“I think,” he starts, words to describe how he’s feeling coming to him in a sudden burst of clarity, “I need to be alone for awhile to figure out who I am now. Because I’m not the same person I was before the war, obviously, but I’m also not the same person I was during it, and I was trying to be…I was trying to be the red paladin, the sharpshooter, and I’m just…not. I don’t know what I am now. But I need to just remove myself from everything to figure that out. That’s why I’ve been so shitty about talking to everyone.”

“Everything…including me.”

“Yeah. I mean, it’s all just me. It’s nothing about you.” He winces internally. Did he just give her the _it’s not you, it’s me_ excuse?

Even if he did, the realization is a relief. It simultaneously explains his mental clinging to Allura and his desperate desire to not talk to her, or see her, or see anyone. The discomfort in his gut when he has to fall back into that loud, happy persona that kept him going during the war. He doesn’t have to be that anymore. He _can’t_ be. He has to let himself change, but to let himself move on he has to let other things go.

Including this. Including her.

“Fuck,” he says, and a tear rolls down his cheek, unbidden. 

“Oh, Lance,” Allura says sadly, and reaches over to wipe it off his cheek with a finger. His eyes flutter shut at her touch.

“I’m sorry, Allura. I’m sorry. I’m such a mess. _Fuck_.”

“Lance. Don’t apologize to me. I feel the same way. We both need time.” She moves her hand to his shoulder and he leans into her until their arms brush and he can feel her shoulders rise with her inhales and exhales. 

“I miss you so much, Allura. I love you. I’m still gonna love you.”

She laughs, though she sounds a little tearful herself. “Don’t be silly. Nobody said anything about not loving each other. How could I not love you, Lance? Our relationship can change without any of the love leaving.”

Her words send cool relief through the burning in his chest. “I—yeah. I guess most humans define friendship and romance as very different kinds of love. And I don’t want you to think I—that I care any less.”

“I don’t think it’s very different at all,” Allura says, leaning into him. “And besides, I’m not saying things couldn’t go back to the way they were, if you came back to Altea, or if something else changes. I just—you know, Lance, we were given a gift when the war ended. Life. We could have died so many times, but we didn’t, and now we have our lives ahead of us. I never thought I’d have that. We shouldn’t spend that gift unhappy. I especially don’t want to spend it making each other unhappy because we’re forcing ourselves into something.”

He laughs wetly. “You’re very wise, you know that?”

“That is why they made me Queen, after all.” 

“After all.”

They lean into each other, quiet for awhile, listening to the waves as the sun dips below the water, painting it golden. After a long silence, he finally works up the courage to ask the question that’s been digging into him since the night of the gala.

“Did you tell me to come home because you wanted to get rid of me? Were you tired of dealing with me?”

She pulls away and looks at him, startled. “Lance! No, of course not! Why would you—have you been thinking that?”

He shrugs. “Sometimes my brain is…just, it tells me things, and I can’t turn it off. Even if I know it’s stupid.”

Her eyes fill with tears. “I thought you’d be back in a few movements. A phoeb or two at the most. You staying away, not talking to me, not talking to any of us…that was…very difficult for me. I always wanted you to come back.”

“Oh,” he says. There’s not much else to say.

“I told you that,” she reminds him. “The few times I managed to talk to you. I told you that when I came.”

“Yeah, I know. I guess I—I didn’t really believe you. Or I did, but it was easier not to because that made it easier to stay away. I really—I didn’t mean to hurt you. I just couldn’t. I couldn’t.”

“I know,” she says softly. “I wouldn’t want you to have come back if you weren’t ready. I told you to come home because you were unhappy, you were hurting, and it hurt me to see you like that. I wanted you to feel better. I still just…I still want that for you, Lance. But it doesn’t seem like you’re there yet. So I’m _glad_ you didn’t force yourself to come back. But that doesn’t mean I didn’t want you. I missed you.”

He’s crying again, at her soft acceptance, her understanding, her love. “I was a mess, Allura. I still am. I didn’t want any of you to see me like that, falling apart. But I shouldn’t have just…gone silent like I did. I know I worried you all and I’m so sorry I hurt you, I should have talked to you. I’m sorry I didn’t talk to you.”

She smiles softly. “I’m just glad you eventually talked to someone. I’m glad Keith came. I should have done that.”

“Me falling apart is, like, the least important thing you should be worrying about. I felt bad enough about Keith coming.”

“I care about you. The people I care about are more important than anything. That’s something I learned during the war.”

“Mmm,” he acknowledges, and leans back against her. The sun is gone, the sky still painted with violet and deep magenta. “Will you still stay the night?”

She yawns. “It’s late. Maybe not in your bed, though.”

It hurts a little to hear, but she’s right. “You can have the guest room. It has a much nicer bed than mine, anyway.”

“Alright. We can stay here for a moment, though. I want to see the stars come out.”

“Yeah,” he says softly. “We can stay for the stars.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CORRECT MY SPANISH PLEASE
> 
> in case you hadn't noticed, this is gonna be a real slow burn.


	4. Heal

No one bothers him for a long time after he and Allura break up. Maybe it’s because they respect that he might want to be left alone. More likely, it’s because he’s getting better at communicating semi-regularly with the others—he calls Hunk once every few weeks, sends Pidge articles about video games they both like, though he’s sure she reads them all long before he does, texts Keith every once in awhile. He even messages Shiro about the position at the Garrison, after Keith prompts him about twelve more times.

Actually…he talks to Keith a lot. It’s more than every once in awhile. It’s every few weeks, almost as much as he talks to Hunk. Keith seems busy, sounds tired, but he always answers, always messages him back. It’s nice. Dependable. Comforting. Three things he never would have thought he’d apply to Keith of all people.

He realizes, after a bit, that he’s talking to Keith how he used to talk to Allura. Random thoughts, questions about the state of the universe, just a text whenever he feels like he needs to talk to someone. He and Allura haven’t talked since she left, though the breakup was as amicable as it could have been. He misses it. Misses her. Misses everyone.

The one year anniversary of the end of the war rolls closer. There’s a celebration, to be held on Altea, and he thinks about going. Convinces himself to go. Starts packing, even. It creeps closer and he tries to think only of the celebration itself, of seeing his friends, of being there. Not the journey. Not the act of leaving home. He tells Hunk he’ll be there, tells Shiro. Tells Keith, even, which really cements it because Keith might come here and kick his ass if he doesn’t show up.

The day comes. He rises early. Finishes the last of his packing. His father drives him to the airport in Havana and he joins the line at the gate waiting to board. Its the most non-humans he’s been around since he got back to Earth, and some recognize him. Whispers fill the air around him like static. He stares at his shoes, terrified to look up, to make eye contact with anyone. Has most of the universe even been aware of where he’s been the last few months? Have the others come up with some elaborate lie to explain away his absence, or does everyone know he’s been hiding on a farm in Cuba? What do they think of him if they do know?

Why does he care?

Boarding begins. The crowd grows more compacted, squished together as people stream towards the entrance. The whispers morph to full on conversations.

He does care. He does.

He stops in his tracks. Someone bumps into him from behind and curses, someone else slams into his shoulder. “Move it, kid,” someone mutters.

He turns around and leaves the line, leaves the port, doesn’t stop walking until he reaches Luis’ apartment on the other side of the city and collapses on the front steps, tears streaming down his cheeks. Luis’ neighbor finds him there nearly an hour later and lets him into the building, wordless. Lisa sighs when she sees him and sits him down on the couch, cooks him some food he can barely taste, and lets him sleep there that night.

He doesn’t answer anyone’s calls. Keith’s. Allura’s. Veronica’s. Hunk’s. Keith’s again. And again. And again.

* * *

A week later, he does answer Shiro’s.

“So you’re alive,” Shiro says wryly. Lance is outside, pulling weeds in the melons, Shiro’s voice tinny through his earpiece. 

“I know Veronica told you what happened.”

“She did, but I’d still like to hear it from you.”

“I tried to come, Shiro, I did. I was practically on the plane. I just couldn’t do it. I’m so sorry.”

“You should apologize to Allura, not me. She told us what happened with you two, by the way.”

“Great,” Lance grumbles. 

“ _I’m_ sorry, for the record. That’s always tough.”

“Yeah, well.” He really doesn’t want to talk about this. “It happens, I guess.”

“It does. Did you avoid coming because of that? Because she wanted to see you there as much as the rest of us did.”

“It wasn’t because of that,” Lance says quickly. “I wanted to see her, too. I really wanted to go, Shiro. I just—“

“Couldn’t,” Shiro finishes for him flatly. 

“I don’t know what’s wrong with me,” he says miserably, abandoning the weeds and sitting down in the sea of melon plants, foliage scratchy through the thin fabric of his shirt.

“You have PTSD,” Shiro says. “You should be talking to a therapist. You’re not, are you?”

“I don’t have PTSD.”

“Coming from someone who’s been dealing with PTSD for the last four years, yeah, you do.”

“But…nothing bad even happened to me, Shiro. Not like you. I don’t have anything to have PTSD over.”

“Lance. You were in a war. You got blown up, you were captured, you _died_. You watched friends die, you killed people. You were in extremely stressful situations without a break for nearly two years straight. A lot of people develop PTSD from much less. Take it from me, Lance. Don’t waste time convincing yourself you’re fine.”

“I—I know I’m not _fine_ , obviously—“

“Lance,” Shiro interrupts him. “Listen. Believe it or not, I didn’t call to chew you out for skipping the anniversary or scaring us to death when you didn’t answer your phone or breaking up with Allura or your mental health. I just called to follow up about the job I offered you. Remember that? You said we could talk about it more. What do you think?"

“I—the job?”

“Yes. The teaching job at the Garrison. Please don’t take this the wrong way, but I think it would help you to have something to do off the farm.”

He opens his mouth to argue, to bite off Shiro’s head like he bit off Allura’s and Keith’s when they suggested the same—but the anger doesn’t come. The simple truth is that Shiro is right, on all counts. He’s fucked up, he has PTSD, he can’t seem to get over this war, and spending all his time on the farm isn’t fixing him the way he desperately wanted it to.

Maybe fixing him was too much to ask of his family, of a farm, of a beach, of Cuba itself. Maybe it was always more about running away than healing, right from the beginning.

Maybe he's spent all this time exhausting himself, convincing himself he’s fine, or he will be, when he could have just let someone help.

He gives in.

“Yeah, Shiro, you’re right, but what would I teach?”

“Piloting—I was thinking Cadets. You’re so good with kids.”

“ _Piloting_? _Me_? Shiro, I just told you I can’t even get into a ship without having a breakdown.”

“It’s all simulators at that level, anyway,” Shiro reassures him, tone even and calm. “And Lance. You’re a great pilot. Seriously skilled.”

“You should get Keith back here if you want a piloting instructor,” Lance says, hearing the surliness in his own tone. Shiro sighs.

“Honestly, Lance, are you ever going to be over that made up rivalry? Besides, Keith’s the one who suggested you.”

“He _did_?”

“Oh, don’t sound so surprised. Anyway, there’s a place for you here, Lance. We really could use you. You know you’re a Commander now, right?”

“When did that happen?” he asks, surprised.

“Oh, Lance.” Shiro sounds sad, a tinge of pity on the edge of his voice. “You all are, now. There was a ceremony at the Garrison a few months ago. We tried to contact you, but you weren’t answering. Veronica said when she mentioned it you said you weren’t interested in coming.”

He has no recollection of that conversation with Veronica. Then again, for a period of time, he has no recollection of any conversation with Veronica because he was so focused on maneuvering around her questions and concern.

“Oh,” he says, because he can’t figure out anything else to say. Then, “What are you?”

“Admiral, now.”

“What?” He nearly falls over. “Shit, Shiro, I didn’t know! Congratulations!”

“I’m pretty sure someone told you.”

He’s never felt guiltier than this, not even when he realized there was no way to contact his family from space and reassure them he wasn’t dead. “I’m sorry. I just—I kind of went off the rails there for awhile. Wasn’t really retaining much anyone was saying to me. Or paying attention to what they were saying in the first place.”

Shiro sighs again. “I know, Lance. I’m just glad you’re listening now. Think about it, okay? No pressure, but I do think it would be good for you to come teach. Cadets only do one piloting session per week, so you could still be at home most of the time. Just…yeah, think about it.”

“I will.” But why put it off, why give himself the chance to avoid it for longer? “I mean, I’ll just do it. I’ll just do it.”

“You’ll—really?”

“Yeah. I’ll do it. Only once a week? Not a big deal. I can totally do that.”

“Yes, Lance! You totally can! Great! Wonderful! I honestly thought it would take another three to six calls to get you to say yes.”

“Thanks for your confidence,” he says wryly.

“Think of your track record,” Shiro shoots back, which shuts Lance up. “You’ll start for spring semester, fall semester already started and it’s too late to get you trained or change up schedules. Spring semester starts a week after the New Year. You should come before that a few times, though, so we can get you set up with an apartment here and measured for new uniforms and all that.”

“I don’t need an apartment,” he says automatically, because that seems like a little too much, a little too permanent, a little too much of a commitment.

“After a full day of trying to teach a bunch of cadets about flying you’ll want a place to crash,” Shiro says. “Believe me. I've been there. Anyway, no arguing. We’ll talk again soon. I’ve got to go, Curtis is here.”

“Who’s Curtis—?” Lance starts, but Shiro’s already hung up. A flat buzz from the dead comm line echoes in his ear until he shuts off his own communicator. He stands and stretches, staring out across the farm from his spot in the sea of melon plants. It’s late, almost six pm, and the sun is sinking down towards the horizon. Lisa and Luis and the kids are here this weekend, and he can hear Nadia and Sylvio shrieking about something in the backyard, smell whatever his mom is cooking for dinner, hear the waves distant over the sound of their neighbor’s ancient tractor rumbling up and down his rows. Palms sway in the breeze, dark against the golden sky. The rainy season will be over soon, but for now the air remains heavy and wet and dark clouds gather to the south, moving quickly. 

He loves this place. He loves the people here. He never wants to leave like he did before.

But leaving for a bit, leaving to teach, even leaving to go back to Altea or to see Hunk or to run a mission with Keith, isn’t leaving like he did before. From now on, he’ll always leave knowing he’ll be back, knowing _when_ he’ll be back, and his family will know, too. It’s different. It can be different.

He can do it.

_“¡Leandro!”_ His mother calls out the back door. “ _¡La sopa está servida!_ ” 

He heeds the call and goes inside to his family.

* * *

That night he lies awake, sleepless. He’s been sleeping through the night more often now, but when he can’t, he’s fallen into a habit—calling Keith. Keith, who picks up no matter what, no matter when, no matter where.

“Lance,” Keith says, his usual curt greeting. They’re on just an audio feed, so he can’t see his face, but Lance imagines him somewhere on Daibazaal, with the purple light from its far away sun, petting Kosmo, or eating something, or walking somewhere in the new city slowly sprawling across the planet’s small surface. 

“Keith,” Lance replies. They sit for a moment in silence. Lance can hear shuffling from Keith’s end, what sounds like a low buzz of murmured conversation.

“Where are you?” he asks.

“Out,” Keith answers, not really an answer at all. Keith never tells Lance much about his life, about what he’s doing. Lance feels like all he does when he calls Keith is talk while Keith listens and deflects questions aimed at him, but then again, that’s always how they’ve been. “I’m walking home now. Couldn't sleep?”

“No,” he replies. Then, “I took the Garrison job.”

“Flight instructor?”

“Flight instructor. Shiro told me you suggested that.”

He can almost see Keith’s languid shrug. “It’s what makes sense. Is there something else you’d want to teach?”

“I don’t even know what classes they have there anymore.”

“So. It makes sense.”

“I can’t fly, Keith.”

“Yeah you can. You’re a good pilot. You flew Red. Not everyone could fly him.”

“No, I mean, Keith—you know. I can’t fucking fly.”

“It’s a simulator.” Lance can hear the slam of a door, the shuffle of shoes coming off, an excited, muffled bark.

“That’s what Shiro said. You home?”

Keith lets out a long sigh. “Yeah.” Lance imagines him flopped on a couch or sprawled over a bed, Kosmo next to him, drooling. A pang of longing goes through him. If Keith were here, if he were over there…he could run his fingers through Kosmo’s soft fur, he could feel Keith’s warmth next to him, he could see the minute expressions flit across his face as they talked. They haven’t talked on video feed for a long time. Keith seems to avoid that. Or maybe that’s Lance—he’s usually the one who calls, anyway.

“I’m glad you took it,” Keith says, after a long silence. That’s one of the things he appreciates about talking with Keith—he lets silences be. Hunk fills them with chatter, Allura always tried to break them with forced conversation, with Pidge they were just awkward. Shiro is good at silence, too, but Keith is the best. He lets Lance takes the time he needs, when he does stop talking. And he talks less now—he notices it himself, and others comment on it. Even if he still out-talks Keith by leagues, he’s silent more now. More of his old self shedding off his shoulders, a snakeskin he’s outgrown. He’s not sure if it will grow back as before, or if that part of him is permanently different now.

“Yeah,” he says quietly. “Me too. I think it’ll be good.”

“Mmmm.”

“You falling asleep on me?”

“It’s late here. It’s late there, too.”

“Yeah. Listen, Shiro said something to me about thinking it would be good for me to have something to do off the farm, and I almost got pissed at him, like I got pissed at you and Allura. But I just—I realized he’s right. And so were you, and so was Allura. I’m not—I thought this would make me better, staying here with my family, but it isn’t. I do need something else. So. I’m sorry about yelling at you, back when you were here.”

Keith is quiet for a long time, so long Lance would think the connection might have died if he couldn’t hear his steady breathing across the line. 

“Don’t apologize,” he eventually says. 

“Why not?”

“I was wrong too,” Keith says, then sighs deeply. “Look, I think you went about things wrong, but it wasn’t my place to just show up and tell you that, or tell you that your farm or your family or Earth wasn’t worth your time. It was. It is.”

“Well, like I said, it hasn’t fixed me, so—“

“You can’t expect it to fix you, Lance. That doesn’t mean it was worthless to go home. I’m glad you figured out that you need to do something else on your own, but it wasn’t fair for me or Allura or anyone else to try to force you into anything. So I’m sorry about that. Still.”

He’s not sure what to say. “Since when did you apologize?” he asks. “Since when were you so, like…wise and shit?”

Keith laughs, a short exhaled breath. If Lance closes his eyes, he can see his smile, rare and genuine. He wishes he was there to see it with his eyes open.

“Dunno, man.” he says, voice throaty, like his cheeks must still be pushed up in a smile. “Guess we’ve both changed.”

“Guess so. Thanks, Keith.”

“Go to bed, Lance,” Keith answers, a hint of fondness in his tone. Lance tries to follow his order, but lies awake for a long time, until the glow of stars on his ceiling imprints against the back of his eyelids when he closes his eyes. When he does fall asleep, he dreams of dog slobber, of black hair, of the purple light of Daibazaal, of a warm body next to his that crumbles to dust as soon as he wakes in the morning. 

* * *

Keith doesn’t call him often anymore. Lance does all the calling these days. It’s a surprise, then, when his phone beeps with an incoming call from Keith. He answers, and Keith’s face flickers to life—he’s actually using the video call for once.

Something’s wrong, though. His face is pale and there’s blood smeared on his cheek. He’s slumped in a seat, clearly on a ship, dark circles heavy around his eyes, hair falling in his face.

“Lance,” he says.

“Keith—Keith, god, what happened? Are you okay?"

“Don’t freak out,” Keith says, which doesn’t do much to help Lance not freak out.  


“Keith, what the fuck—“

“I just wanted to call before you heard it from Allura or Shiro,” Keith interrupts. “I got hurt on the last mission. I’ll be fine, we’re on our way to medical treatment now. I know they’ll both overreact so—“

“How bad is it?”

“—I just wanted to tell you first—“

“Keith, _how bad is it_?”

Keith reaches up a hand to brush his hair out of his eyes, leaving another smear of blood on his forehead. He’s keeping the camera very carefully trained on his face, not allowing it to stray any farther down his body. “It’s not that bad. Just a scratch.”

“Let me see it.”

Keith’s face tightens. “It’s fine, Lance.”

“What happened? Where is it? You’re covered in blood, dude—“

“Just a scratch. Lower abdomen. Listen, Lance, I’ll be fine. Just don’t freak out! And don’t listen to whatever Shiro or Allura says. Trust me—I’m fine.”

“I don’t trust you at all!” Lance yells at him, but he’s already hung up.

“Fuck!” Lance yells at the screen, and immediately calls Allura. She doesn’t pick up. Neither does Shiro. Neither does Krolia, though she never does. Lance is about five seconds away from going into town and catching the next transport shuttle to the port in Havana so he can shoot himself into space when Shiro calls him back.

“Lance?” Shiro asks, clearly distracted, face a blur in the video feed. “What’s up?”

“Keith!” He blurts. “Have you—do you know—did he call you?”

Shiro stops moving and Lance can finally make out his features. He's frowning. “No? What about him? Did he call you?”

“He’s injured! He called me to tell me he was fine because he said once you and Allura heard you’d blow it out of proportion but he looks really bad, Shiro, he’s bleeding all over the place and—“

“Woah, woah, Lance—slow down. Keith’s injured? Where is he?”

“I don’t know! He’s on a ship, he must be with someone because I don’t think he was piloting…”

“He didn’t say anything else to you?”

“No! Just to not freak out! Shiro, I’m literally about to leave and go—“

“Go do what? You don’t know where he is. Stay put, Lance. I’ll try and get a hold of him. He might have contacted Allura first if he’s near Altea, and the Blade might have information. Just—try to take his advice, don’t freak out yet. Not until we know what’s going on.”

“How can _you_ be telling me not to freak out, he’s practically your brother!”

“We just need to get all the information first.” Shiro sounds calm, but the longer Lance looks he sees the stress in the tightness of Shiro’s jaw, the dart of his eyes back and forth. “I’ll find out what’s happening, Lance. I’ll tell you when I know, okay?”

“I tried to call Allura,” Lance mumbles. “And Krolia.”

“It’s the middle of the night for both of them. If Keith’s on a ship, you might have been the first person he called.”

“Why would he call me first?” Lance asks. Something flits across Shiro’s face and he opens his mouth to speak before giving a tiny, aborted shake of his head and closing his eyes as if to gather himself.

“What?”

“I don’t know, Lance,” Shiro says, voice even in a way that indicates he’s working very hard to keep it that way. “You should ask him about that.”

“Yeah, if he’s not _dead—“_

_“Don’t_ say that,” Shiro snaps, belaying his worry. Lance shuts up. Shiro sighs again, pinches the bridge of his nose, takes a deep breath. “Sorry. Sorry. I’ll call you when I find out what’s going on. I’m going to try contacting Kolivan directly. You could try Allura again.”

Lance knows this is simply Shiro’s way of giving him something to do so he doesn’t go completely insane waiting for someone else to tell him what’s going on. It helps anyway. “Okay,” he says.

“I’m sure he’s fine.”

“Okay.”

“Try not to worry.”

“Okay.”

“Okay.”

“Okay.”

He worries. He paces. He neglects his work and brushes off his mother with unnecessary frustration when she asks him what’s going on. By the time he finally gets Allura on the phone, he’s about to twitch out of his own skin. 

Allura’s yawning, clearly fresh out of bed. Her eyes tighten with alarm when he tells her and she lets out a surprised “ _What_?” and starts walking very quickly, jostling the communicator. Her hair is mussed and there is a clear imprint of teeth peeking out above her collar. His stomach twists when he sees it and he has to put it away, into the back of his mind, remind himself that she’s not his to be jealous over anymore. It’s been months now. She’s free to do as she pleases, with who she pleases.

“Lance,” she’s saying. “ _Lance_!”

He snaps out of it. “Yeah?”

“I asked when he called you?”

“I few hours ago. Vargas ago. I don’t know.”

“And you talked to Shiro?”

“Yeah.” He pauses, realizes she probably wants more from him than that. “Uh, he said he was going to try to contact the Blade. I haven’t heard anything since.” His stomach twists again, harder, fear rising in his throat. He sits down against the wall.

Allura must read his rising panic in his face because she immediately makes an effort to quell her own and goes from worried to reassuring in the span of a second. “Don’t worry. I’m sure he’ll be alright. You said he was in a ship, yes? He must have been with someone, then. He’s getting help.”

“Yeah, he wasn’t piloting,” Lance says, before something horrifying occurs to him. “Oh, god, I didn't see anyone else with him, though, what if—“ What if he was alone. What if he was trapped on the ship with nowhere to go, no one to help him? What if he was calling to say goodbye, pretending like things were alright so Lance wouldn’t panic. What if he’s—

“Lance,” Allura says firmly. “Could you hear the ship running?"

“What—“ Oh. He’d heard the telltale rumble of engines in the background of the call. Someone was piloting the ship, He hadn’t been alone. “Yes.”

Allura nods. “So he’s with someone. He’ll be okay.” Something pings and her eyes drop to something held in her other hand. “Ah—it’s Kolivan. I’ll answer it. I will let you know what he says, Lance. Alright?”

He nods. 

“I’ll call you back,” she reassures. She must see the panic in his eyes, the uncertainty in his face. He doesn’t want to hang up, doesn’t want to lose this thin connection to her, to Keith, to the universe.

“Lance. Just wait a few minutes. I’ll call you.”

“Okay,” he croaks out, and the connection severs. He sits staring at his phone for an unmeasurable amount of time—Minutes? Hours?—until it rings again. It’s not Allura. It’s Shiro. For some reason, this sends a bolt of panic through him. He fumbles with it, finally manages to answer.

“Keith?” Is the first word out of his mouth. Not even a greeting.

Shiro looks worried now. Face pinched. But he’s not crying; his eyes aren’t red.

“He’ll be okay. He’s injured. He’s getting medical attention now. They might take him to Altea for the pods.”

“It’s that bad?” Lance yelps. “What happened?”

“His team was ambushed. We’re not sure on the full story right now, not even Kolivan knows what’s going on. All I know is Keith’s going to be okay. About five different people told me that, including him, though he was the least convincing.”

Relief washes through Lance. “You talked to him?”

Shiro nods. “Briefly. He wasn’t doing great, but he’s safe. I’m going to him now.”

Lance chews on his lip. “Should I—?”

Something like pity flashes in Shiro’s eyes. “You can if you want, Lance. But he was right, even if his method of informing you was…alarming. He’ll be okay.”

Lance swallows. Thinks about how long the trip from Earth to Daibazaal is, or Earth to Altea. Wonders if he could hold it together for that long.

The answer is no. He’s been putting off going to the Garrison, an hour flight that never leaves Earth’s atmosphere.

“Right,” he says, defeated. “Right, well, uh…just. Keep me updated. Please.”

Shiro’s gentle smile is unbearable. “I will. I’ll tell him you say hello. That you wanted to come.”

Lance feels flushed. “I mean…don’t tell him how much I freaked out, okay? But you can tell him hello from me.”

Shiro smiles again, nods, and cuts the connection. Ignoring his family’s questions, he retreats to his room for the rest of the day, laying in bed lost in thought, in worry, in memories. Some days, the time spent in space seems so long ago, like his life has spooled out far past where he is and the experience is nothing but a distant memory. Other days, like today, it feels like it all happened yesterday, or maybe is still happening; like being home with his family is the dream and he’ll wake up any moment to the alarms, to the panic and adrenaline, to Blue or Red, to his team. His worry for Keith loops itself into worry for the rest of his friends, the ones he hasn’t talked to very recently—Hunk, who he hasn't called in ages, Allura and the love bite on her neck—which loops back into a strange nostalgia. Missing the lions, that easy connection. Missing the castleship. Missing their attempts to make it into a home; Hunk’s cooking, the movie nights with strange Altean dramas, the bits and pieces they all collected from across the universe to decorate their rooms and shared spaces. He misses it fiercely sometimes, like today. Misses having them all close by. Misses the freedom of endless space around him. Misses the battles, sometimes. Feeling like he did something worthwhile with himself for the day. Saved someone. Freed a planet. Took out a Galra base.

He’s almost fearful to admit it to himself, but sometimes he wants to go back. Sometimes.

He doesn’t hear anything from anyone for a terrifying few days, but he tries his best to put it out of his mind and trust that his team would tell him if something happened. He’s moments away from texting or calling Shiro or Keith or Allura at any given time, but he manages to control himself, reasoning that they would get annoyed pretty quickly with his repeat calls, especially if nothing’s wrong, if nothing’s happened, if nothing’s changing. They would tell him if Keith was worse. If Keith was dead.

Still, it’s a relief when Allura finally calls, looking exhausted but not particularly sad.

“He’s here,” she says, before he can get a word out. “It was pretty bad, but he’ll be okay. He insisted on going back to Daibazaal first, he thought he didn’t need one of our healing pods. They have a version of them there, but they're less effective and in higher demand, so he refused to use one of those, either. Shiro had to convince him to come here to speed up the healing.”

“What happened?” Lance demands. “He wouldn’t tell me.”

She shrugs. “It’s been hard to get the full story out of him. I don’t think he's entirely sure what happened, either—they were ambushed by a group, they were targeting Keith, it seems like it was an assassination attempt, or at least an attempt to capture him that they botched. The Blade is still trying to understand what happened fully.”

“An _assassination attempt_?” Lance bleats out, hearing his own voice crack. “They were trying to kill him? He wasn’t in just some…stupid fight?”

She shakes her head. “No, but Lance—it’s not so surprising. He’s quite high up in the Blade ranks, he’s known throughout the universe as a leader of the Alliance. These things happen.”

“You can’t just say _these things happen_ to an assassination attempt, Allura! That’s not, like, a casual thing!”

She holds up a hand to stop him from continuing. “I’m not treating it casually, Lance! None of us are! I’m just saying, it’s a danger of the job. He knows that. I know that. We all know that. It already happened to me, remember?”

“Don’t remind me,” he growls, thinking of the attacker at the celebration. “I feel like assassination attempts are things we should be trying to prevent, and instead they seem to be happening more often.”

“We just ended an intergalactic war, Lance. Things are bound to be a bit unstable. We’re trying to figure out what happened, and when we do we will track down the attackers and take care of it. Okay? Don’t get angry with me for not doing enough.” It’s easy enough to read between the lines of what she’s saying—don’t get angry with me for what I’m doing. You’re doing less, sitting there on Earth. He changes the subject.

“Can I see him?” he asks.

“He’s sleeping,” she says, clipped. He can tell she’s annoyed. 

“I don’t need to talk to him,” he says. “I just want to see him.”

Allura sighs and stands, rolling her eyes as she leaves the room. He sees the halls of the castle passing in the background of the video feed as she strides towards the infirmary and a pang of sadness rattles through him. He misses those halls. He misses living in the castle.

She reaches the infirmary before he can fall too hard into nostalgia. When she turns the feed away from herself, the first thing he sees is Shiro, sitting beside a bed, feet propped up on the covers as he taps away at a tablet. He looks up to greet Allura and seems surprised to see Lance through the video feed. He sets his tablet aside and stands, moving closer to Allura.

“Lance?” he asks, question implicit. 

“I just wanted to see him,” Lance says. “For myself.” Then, an unnecessary addendum—“I was worried.”

Shiro steps aside, allowing Lance a full view of the bed. “He’s fine,” Shiro says, though the exhaustion in the bags under his eyes and drawn lines of his face show it must not have been easy going. “Just sleeping off the effects of the pod now. Should be able to go home tomorrow.”

He looks fine. Maybe a little pale, but he always is. He’s relaxed and sprawled over the bed, turned on his side, one hand tucked under his chin. Natural sleep, not the artificial stillness of the sick or injured.

“He looks good,” Lance breathes. Shiro nods. Allura says, “I told you.”

“He’s not going right out on another mission, is he?” Lance asks. Shiro shrugs. “I’ll go with him back to Daibazaal. I’m sure between Krolia and I we’ll do our best to make him take a break, but you know Keith.”

“Yeah,” Lance says fervently. “I know.”

On the bed, Keith mumbles a little and rolls his head against the pillow, turning towards the sound of their voices. Shiro glances back at him, then lowers his voice to a whisper. “We should stop talking. It took me forever to talk him into taking a nap instead of taking off the second he got out of the pod. I don’t want him to wake up.”

“Yes, Lance,” Allura says pointedly. “We should let him sleep.”

“That’s fine!” Lance says, hearing the whine in his own voice. “I just wanted to see him. We can go.”

Shiro gives him a little wave. “When I’m back on Earth, we need to set up a time for you to come to the Garrison. You can’t just avoid it, Lance.”

“Yeah, yeah, I know. See you, Shiro.”

Allura strides back into the hall, shutting the door softly behind her. She turns the feed back to herself and raises an eyebrow. “Believe me now?”

“I didn’t _not believe you_ , I just—“

“Wanted to see for yourself,” she finishes, then sighs. “I’m sorry. I understand. I’m just tired.”

“Stressful few days,” he allows.

“Yes. I should go. I will let you know if anything changes, or Shiro will. In the meantime, there are meetings planned at the Garrison in January. I understand you’ll be teaching there by then?”

“Yeah,” he says, though that’s the last thing on his mind right now. 

She smiles at him, full and sincere. “Good, Lance. I was glad to hear that. It will be good for you, I think. And for the Garrison. You have a lot of knowledge to share.”

He scoffs at those words and she frowns. “Really, Lance. You do. At any rate, I will see you there in January, most likely. But we’ll talk soon, yes?”

“Yes,” he says, only a bit reluctant. It’s still strange, talking to her. He still wants to know about the love bite and the other factors in her life contributing to the dark circles under her eyes. After so long feeling like he could ask her about anything, talk to her about anything, he can’t anymore. The change is jarring.

“Alright. Love you, Lance.”

Strange, too, to hear that from her. He knows she means it, just in a different way now. It’s still difficult to hear. Too difficult to say back.

“You too,” he manages, and severs the connection.

* * *

He hears the next day from Shiro that Keith’s back on Daibazaal and agreed to hold off on his next mission for a few quintants, largely thanks to Krolia threatening him with further physical harm if he refused to take a break, and Kolivan refusing to grant him active mission status. He doesn’t hear anything from Keith himself. A week goes by, then another, and he’s half terrified Keith’s gotten himself into some new deadly situation, but he knows he’d hear from someone if he was in trouble. He could call him, of course, like he’s been doing, but something tells him to give Keith some space. Something in him is a little scared to reach out, though he doesn’t know why.

Another week. A month. Pidge finishes building some sort of robot that the Garrison seems dangerously excited about and that Lance is strictly forbidden from talking about to anyone. Hunk and Shay finally, _finally_ start to date “officially”, even though Lance is pretty sure they’ve been sneaking off to make out in corners every time they see each other for at least the last six months.

“She’s amazing,” Hunk gushes to him over the phone a few weeks after they start dating. “I just can’t believe she actually wants to be with _me_ —I mean, don’t get me wrong, I know I’m amazing, but she’s, like, really just…amazing.”

“I’m happy for you, bud,” Lance says. He’s packing the truck for market and he hasn’t seen Hunk in person in eight months and he misses him like someone’s stuck a red-hot brand into the depths of his chest. “I mean, she did get captured for you like the very first time you met, so I have to say that you’re literally the only one surprised by any of this, but I am very happy for you.”

“Yeah,” Hunk says, beaming absentmindedly. “Yeah, I mean, I finally get what you were talking about when you wouldn’t stop gushing about Allura when you guys first got together. It’s just…it’s amazing, when it works out, isn’t it?”

“Yeah,” Lance says hollowly. He knows Hunk doesn’t mean to bring up a sore subject, and the subject of Allura shouldn’t even really be sore anymore. It still hurts to hear him refer so flippantly to something that is so thoroughly over for Lance. What if he never finds that again? “It is amazing.”

Hunk seems to shake out of his reverie, finally looking straight at Lance again. “Hey, you know, I was thinking of visiting soon. Around Christmas. I want to visit my family, probably spend the holiday with them, but I might come to you before, if that’s okay. I miss you, man.”

Lance perks up immediately, leaning against the side of the truck and grinning. “Yeah! Oh, man, Hunk, that’d be great! Of course it’s okay, you know my mom would love to see you. She asks about you all the time, always wants to know where you’ve been and what you’re doing. Please come!”

Hunk grins at him. “Yeah, I will. I’ll let you know. Probably in a couple weeks here. Maybe I could hang out for five days or so and then head back over to my parents the week before Christmas.”

It takes Lance a moment to realize that, yes, Christmas is really in just a few weeks. Time slips by him sometimes, days running into weeks running into months of the same work; weed, water, harvest, market, plant, repeat. Make dinner, feed the chickens, milk Kaltenecker, visit Luis and Lisa and the kids in Havana every so often, go swimming or try to remember how to surf. The mundanity of daily life sweeping him away, punctuated by conversations like this, where he catches up on the news from the rest of the universe. 

He realizes, abruptly, that he’s meant to start teaching at the Garrison in exactly one month. Shiro has officially given up on trying to get him there early, wearily requesting he be there a day or two before the semester starts so he can at least be present for orientation. He’s grateful to be free of the nagging, but he’s still not sure he’ll be able to get on that plane. 

“Shit, dude, I forgot it’s even December.”

Hunk laughs at him, an edge of concern to it he’s clearly trying to hide. “Yeah, man. Christmas used to be your favorite holiday, you can’t lose track of that!”

“Yeah, it still is,” he replies automatically, but he's not sure how to feel about it. A few holidays have come and gone since he’s been back on Earth and he hasn’t been able to muster up the usual energy and excitement. Old Lance lived for holidays, parties, feasts, times when the whole family got together and went to mass and then ate themselves sick. New Lance doesn’t quite know what to do. He wouldn’t say he doesn’t believe in God anymore, not quite; but the idea of walking into a building and singing praises to some entity that almost surely isn’t listening doesn't seem like the right way to connect to any God that might exist. He prayed enough during the war to know that if God exists, it isn’t listening. The gift giving and merriment and food ring hollow too, though he supposes it will be nice to have the whole family together for a few days—Luis and Lisa and the kids, Tía Rosa and Tío Francisco from Santiago, Abuela and Tío Julio from Miami. His dad’s cousin Aidan might even come from Glasgow despite a serious fear of flying, now that Lance is home. Fear of flying. Now they have something to bond over.

“Lance? Buddy? You’re a million miles away.”

He shakes himself. “Sorry, dude. Just thinking. It’ll be weird to be home for Christmas.”

Hunk sighs. “Yeah, for sure. It’ll be good though. Better if we get to see each other.”

Lance grins at him. “Definitely. Keep me updated, but I’ll tell my parents to expect you for at least a few days.”

Hunk grins back. “Definitely. Holy shit, man, I can’t wait for your mom’s cooking. I need to get some recipes from her. Do you think she’d share with me?”

“Oh, absolutely. She’d love nothing better.”

Hunk signs off with an excited grin, and he feels marginally better for a few days. He still doesn’t hear from Keith. He arranges a flight to Arizona, paid for and done, to arrive a few days before term starts. Shiro seems equally pleased and relieved when Lance sends him the flight information. 

“Heard from Keith lately?” Lance asks him at the end of their conversation, hating himself for being weak enough to ask.

Shiro shrugs. He seems distracted. “Oh, you know. The usual. Heard from him a few weeks ago. He’s busy. Might come back to Earth soon, but I can’t get a commitment out of him. Why? Have you?”

Lance shrugs too. “The usual,” he parrots, and Shiro doesn’t press further.

Hunk comes. They go surfing just like they used to and eat their way through town, hitting all of Hunk’s old favorites. For the few days he’s there the heaviness Lance has grown used to weighing down his shoulders sheds off and he feels like nothing’s changed, like he and Hunk are still two kids with far off dreams of flying, more concerned with days off and lying on the beach and eating pizza than anything of the real world. Then Hunk leaves and the family descends for Christmas and instead of feeling the usual excitement of seeing everyone he feels stifled. Everyone is too kind to him, treating him like glass liable to break if anyone asks the wrong question. He wants to shake them, his uncles and aunts, his grandmother, scream _It’s me, it’s still me, it’s Lance! It’s Leandro! Don’t treat me different, I’m still me_.

If he did, he’d be lying. He’s different. Everyone can see it. He can see it. He doesn’t think it’s a bad thing, necessary, but in front of the family who have known him since he came out of the womb he feels like a stranger in his own skin.

The family starts to dissipate after Christmas, though Abuela and a few cousins hang on for longer visits. He’s left feeling burnt out and exhausted, the prospect of leaving for the Garrison in just a week nearly impossible. He’s not ready for that. Not ready to leave. Not ready to teach, to be seen by other people, to be perceived and judged as Lance McClain, paladin of Voltron. He wonders if Shiro would let him start teaching next semester instead, but he doesn’t want to ask him. It tastes like defeat.

Late afternoon a few days after Christmas, Lance sits listlessly in the living room, watching the shadows move across the wall and ostensibly keeping an eye on Nadia, Sylvio, and a few of the younger cousins while they play with a robot that Pidge sent for Christmas. The robot is very simple, similar to Rover, but has the alarming habit of breaking into highly realistic, extremely loud impressions of popular cartoon characters every so often. The kids love it, but Lance thinks his mom is about to quietly disappear the thing in the middle of the night. They might find it floating in the shallows of The Bahamas in a few months. 

A knock on the door startles him out of his reverie just as his dad calls them to dinner from the kitchen. The single knock is quickly followed by a flurry, sounding impatient.

“Can you get that, Leandro?” His father calls as the kids scramble towards the kitchen.

He pulls himself up from the couch and trudges towards the door, thinking it must be a late package delivery, something sent a few days too late to make it in time for Christmas. He pulls open the door, ready for a package resting on the porch and a delivery truck pulling away.

“Hey,” Keith says. His hair’s in a ponytail. He’s wearing a new brown leather jacket despite the heat and squinting in the sunlight. Light glints off something in his ear and Lance realizes he’s pierced it; not something like a gauge or a giant shark tooth like he’d expect from Keith, but a simple silver hoop. He looks taller again, somehow. Soon, infuriatingly, he might outgrow Lance. Must be something with the Galra genes. 

Most of all, he looks whole and healthy and uninjured. So unlike the last time Lance saw him.

“Hey,” Lance replies. “Uh…what are you doing here?”

“Shiro told Mom about Christmas,” Keith says. “She thought I should have some time off. I went to Shiro’s, but I thought I’d come by here and say hi. You kinda fell off the map again.”

“Yeah,” Lance says. “It’s been busy. Plus, the last time you talked to me you were literally bleeding out.”

Keith’s shoulders rise, half shrug, half sheepishness. “I wasn’t bleeding out. You gonna invite me in?”

“Oh,” he steps aside from where he’s blocking the doorway with his body. “Yeah…Mama just finished dinner. You’re welcome to eat. We’ve still got all the Christmas leftovers.”

“Thanks,” Keith says, ducking inside. He claps Lance briefly on his shoulder. “Good to see you.”

“You too,” he says, closing the door behind him, skin burning beneath his thin t-shirt where Keith touched him. He stares at him as he follows him down the hall towards the kitchen. He looks totally normal. No limp. No sign that he had a devastating injury just a month or so ago.

Lance supposes that’s a good thing. He knows he went into the healing pods. He _should_ look fine. That’s what they do. Heal.

Lance’s mom envelopes Keith in a hug the second he steps into the kitchen and Nadia and Sylvio crowd close to him, tugging at his pants and jacket, rattling off question after question. They remember him from the Garrison, after they came back to Earth the first time. Keith proved himself good with kids then and Nadia and Sylvio haven’t forgotten it. His younger cousins hang back, eyeing Keith warily. He wonders what they see. Even smiling and greeting Lance’s family, Keith cuts an intimidating figure. 

Eventually, though, the cousins get over their shyness and join Nadia and Sylvio. Claudia, eight years old, reaches up on her tip toes to poke Keith’s cheek where the scar from Shiro’s arm slices across his pale skin.

“What happened to you?” she asks.

“Claudia!” His mom admonishes. “ _¡Eso no es educado!_ ”

“ _No se preocupe,_ ” Keith says, crouching down to be at Claudia’s level. “I got hurt. Someone burned me.”

Her eyes grow wide. “Someone? Why?”

Keith nods, earnest. “We were fighting with each other.”

Claudia presses her small hand to his face. “Did you make up and apologize to each other?”

A small smile crosses Keith’s face, wrinkling the edges of the scar. “Yeah. We did.”

“Good,” Claudia says, stepping away from him. “We’re about to eat dinner,” she informs him.

“Yeah! Yeah, Keith, are you staying for dinner?” Sylvio shouts, tugging at his jacket sleeve.

Keith glances back towards Lance even though Lance has already invited him, then towards Lance’s mom. “You’re welcome to, Keith. In fact, I insist,” Lance’s mom says, putting an arm around his shoulders and guiding him to a chair. Lance’s father reaches across the table to shake his hand, Marco claps him on the shoulder as he passes by carrying a bowl of rice. Rachel sets a beer down in front of him without even asking if he wants one, and Lance deposits a plate and fork in front of him while elbowing Nadia and Sylvio out of the way. “ _¡Basta!_ Leave him alone, sit down!”

Keith smiles at him. “They’re okay. Thanks. Sorry, I was trying to make it after you ate so you wouldn’t have to worry about it.”

“She would have fed you no matter what time you showed up,” Lance tells him, nodding at his mother as he takes the seat next to Keith. “Don’t worry about it.”

“Really,” his mother echoes. “We have plenty of food. Still clearing out Christmas leftovers.”

Keith takes the beans Marco passes him and spoons some onto his plate. “Well, thanks. I was hoping to stay a few days. I probably should have checked in with you first, but this was all kind of last minute.” 

“Yeah, so Krolia literally had to kick you off the planet to get you to take a break?” Lance asks. Keith shoots him a glare, but it lacks any true annoyance. 

“No, I was kind of planning on coming anyway. Sometime soon. I actually forgot about Christmas, ‘til Shiro said something about it.”

“I kind of did, too,” Lance says softly, beneath the din of his family loudly talking over each other. “It was kind of weird to be here.”

Keith sighs. “Yeah, it was weird to be at Shiro’s, too. I haven’t had a Christmas tree since I was eight, but Shiro got one this year. I actually had to think for a minute about why he’d have a tree in his house before I realized what it was.”

Lance snorts out a laugh. “That’s pathetic.”

Keith shrugs, shoves a forkful of beans and rice into his mouth. “Yeah, well. My holiday experience in general is pretty pathetic."

Lance feels guilty immediately. “Sorry, I didn’t mean…”

“No, no, don’t worry about it. I mean, it is pathetic. To forget what a Christmas tree is.”

“Well, was it nice at least? To be with Shiro?”

Keith smiles and nods, something faraway in his eyes. “Yeah. Yeah, it was really nice. It felt like…having a family. We ate dinner with the Holts and it was just…yeah. I haven’t felt like that in awhile.”

“You do have a family,” Lance says. “I’m glad you’re finally realizing it.”

Keith looks at him and smiles again, their gazes locking for a long moment. He stares into the strange purple of Keith’s irises and thinks _family, we’re family._

“So, Keith,” his father interrupts, and Lance jerks and breaks their gaze. “What’s the latest news from the greater universe? Lance never tells us anything!”

“‘Cause I don’t _know_ anything,” Lance grumbles, and Keith laughs.

“Oh, the usual. Lots of relief missions. That’s going well, we’re actually starting to see progress and rebuilding. Planets are getting back on their feet, they don’t need us as much anymore. There are some spots that…aren’t so good, but for the most part it’s going well.”

“That must be rewarding,” Lance’s mother says. “Seeing those places recover. It’s been wonderful to see it happen here on Earth, with so many species and people working together.”

“Yeah,” Keith says, though something unreadable flickers in his gaze. “It is. It feels like all the work is worth it. Like the war was worth it.” He ducks his head to his plate and shovels in a few more bites.

“Of course it was worth it,” Marco says. “You guys saved the universe! No matter what happens after, it was worth it for that, at least! Right?”

Keith stays silent, chewing his massive bite. His knee bounces. Lance reaches one finger over and rests it lightly on Keith’s knee. He stills.

“Sometimes it doesn’t feel like it,” Lance says. “I know it was, but sometimes it doesn’t feel like it.”

No one talks and the silence stretches for long enough to feel awkward. Keith drops a hand to his lap and rests one finger on top of Lance’s. Eventually, he stops chewing and finally speaks again.

“Yeah, but it is good. There are some other things going on, of course, some rebels and rogue Galra we’re still dealing with, but that isn’t as much of a problem anymore.”

“Rebels?” Rachel asks. “Lance hasn’t said anything about that before. Are they dangerous?”

Lance shoots Keith a Look. _Don’t freak my family out. Don’t tell them about bombs and dead children._

Keith shrugs. “There are always going to be factions unhappy with how things are going. Especially trying to clean up a ten thousand year long war. It’s a very loose group, the only unifying factor is general dissatisfaction. They’ve been targeting Blades, because we’re the most visible and spread out due to the relief efforts. A few operatives have gone missing, or been ambushed. Like I said, though, we’ve mostly got a handle on it. It’s definitely not anything to worry about.”

"Have more gone missing?” Lance blurts in alarm around a mouthful, effectively negating Keith’s calm attitude. Keith shoots him a sidelong glance. 

“A few. We’re working on it, though.” Keith raises an eyebrow and widens his eyes, clearly saying _I’ll tell you later_ without really saying it. Lance resumes shoveling food into his mouth to stop himself asking more questions.

The remainder of dinner passes with fairly inane conversation and Keith helps with the washing up despite Lance’s mom trying to shoo him out of the kitchen every other minute. He’s reminded viscerally of Allura, dripping wet over the sink and laughing as his mother showed her different types of scrubbers. Keith washes efficiently and thoroughly—clearly, he’s washed plenty of dishes in his life. After, Lance nudges Keith.

“Want to go down to the beach? I didn’t get to show you last time.”

Keith nods and Lance leads him through the lower field, past the orchard, across the road, and down to the sand. It’s late, the sun mostly gone, purple twilight descending. A few teenagers play a last round of volleyball down the beach a ways, and a couple walk barefoot in the shallow surf, hand in hand. 

“Wow,” Keith says. “I get why you love it so much.”

“Is this your first time at a beach?”

“I mean, I saw it when I came here last, but I didn’t come down to the water. And I’ve been on beaches on other planets, but…yeah. This is my first Earth beach.”

Lance spreads his arms. “Welcome, then! Next time you’re here, I’ll teach you to surf.”

Keith grimaces and sinks down to sit in the sand. “I think I’m good.”

“Keith,” Lance whines. “You haven’t been to the ocean until you’ve surfed. Trust me, you’d love it.”

“Whatever you say.”

Lance sighs and sits down next to him. “I wish we hadn’t missed the sunset.”

“You can show me tomorrow,” Keith says. He stares out at the water, running his fingers absentmindedly through the sand. Lance finds himself stuck on a strand of hair that’s escaped his ponytail, fluttering in the breeze. 

“Shiro’s seeing someone,” Keith says out of the blue, and Lance starts, tearing his eyes away from the hair. 

“What? Who?”

“Curtis.”

“Who the hell is Curtis?”

Keith huffs a laugh. “He was part of the crew on the Atlas. One of the guys on the bridge…you definitely met him. Nice guy.”

“Don’t remember,” Lance says. “Uh…how do you feel about it?”

Keith looks at him. “What do you mean?”

“I mean…he’s your brother. And you knew Adam.”

Keith frowns and turns his eyes to the waves. He’s silent for a moment.

“Adam’s dead,” he finally says. “We all have to move on eventually.”

_We all have to move on eventually_. Lance stretches his legs out and lets the waves roll over the tips of his toes.

“How…uh, how are you?” Keith asks, stilting. Lance squints at him.

“Um…okay? Good? I guess?”

Keith sighs. “No, I mean, like…how are you _doing_. You know. With the Allura thing and. Stuff.”

Keith is so earnestly awkward it would be cute, if Lance had any desire whatsoever to talk about “the Allura thing” with him. 

“It’s fine,” he says. “It’s great. I’m fine. We’re great.”

Keith eyes him. “…Great.”

“Yeah.”

“That was the least convincing thing I’ve ever heard you say, Lance.”

Lance sighs and kicks his foot into the sand. “What do you want me to say? It sucked. It still kind of sucks, even though it’s been awhile and I’m pretty sure she’s moved on.”

“I’m sorry,” Keith says softly.

He shrugs. “It’s what needed to happen. We both knew it. Talking about it makes it worse.”

“Sorry,” Keith says again.

He just shrugs.

“She’s with Romelle,” Keith says after a moment of silence and it takes Lance’s brain a second to catch up with the statement. Who’s with Romelle?

He chokes on his own spit when his brain catches up. “What?”

Keith nods. “Yeah. I think it was pretty recent but they…they got pretty close. Romelle’s been on Altea since the six-month celebration, helping with diplomatic talks and working on finding out if there are any other surviving Altean colonies out there.”

“Great,” Lance says bitterly. “So she replaced me the second I left, then.”

Keith winces. “That’s not how it went. She missed you a lot. She was expecting you to come back. That didn't happen until...after.”

“Well, I’m glad I didn’t. Wouldn’t have wanted to interfere with her fucking Romelle.”

“I shouldn’t have said anything.”

“No, you probably shouldn’t have.” At least it explains the love bite that’s been haunting him for two months.

“She’s just moving on, Lance. It’s okay to move on.”

“Yeah,” Lance says bitterly. “I’m aware. You’re all doing it, I’m not, I’m the fuckup, yada yada. Is that what you’re here to tell me? You guys all have a meeting about Lance the Fuckup again and they decided to send you cause it worked so well last time?”

Keith sighs, frustrated. “You’re such an asshole sometimes.”

“Why come visit, then? You could just leave me alone. You can all just leave me alone.”

Keith glares at him and gets to his feet. “Yeah, right, Lance. You should know by now that your self pity bullshit isn’t gonna scare me away. I’ll see you when you’re ready to actually talk to me.”

He walks away back towards the road, sand clinging to his bare feet. Lance watches him go, seething. A wave rushes up past his feet and wets the legs of his rolled up jeans and he swears loudly. A few paces away, a woman glares at him and leads a young boy away with a pointed expression.

“Fuck,” he mutters, and jumps up, kicking sand as he runs after Keith.

“Keith!”

Keith stops at the edge of the road, arms crossed. He doesn’t turn back to face Lance, but he doesn’t keep walking, either. He stops in front of him and Keith raises an eyebrow, staring at him. Light from the streetlamp reflects off the silver of his earring and his ponytail is coming loose, hair hanging in his eyes, and something light and quick rabbits in Lance’s chest just looking at him.

“Sorry,” he says lamely. Keith’s jaw clenches.

“I’m sorry for bringing up Allura. I shouldn’t have. But Jesus, Lance, you don’t always have to bite people’s heads off. And we’re not all plotting behind your back all the time. Maybe the fact that you think we’re all judging you for what you’re doing says more about where you’re at with yourself than what we think about you.”

Several possible responses to this cross Lance’s mind, including _fuck you_ and _mind your own business_ and _how can you see right through me without any effort at all._ In the end, he slumps and looks down at the dirty pavement between his and Keith’s feet.

“I know. I don’t know why—I’m just stuck. I can’t get over anything. I can’t move forward.”

Keith shuffles his feet. He’s wearing the same beat-up old red boots he was wearing when they got shot into space. Lance is impressed he’s kept track of them for this long.

“You’re going to the Garrison. That’ll help, I’m sure it will.”

Lance shuffles his own feet. “Maybe. I hope so.” When he looks back up, Keith is staring out at the ocean. The moon is rising low over the surf.

“I didn’t mean that,” Lance blurts.

“What?” Keith asks, looking back at him. 

“That you should all just leave me alone. I don’t want to be left alone. I miss you all. I’m glad you’re here.” The words jumble in his mouth and he has to look away again, Keith’s gaze heavy on him. He’s silent for a moment, long enough for Lance to think he’s not going to reply. 

“I miss you too,” he says eventually, and his voice is low and heavy with something Lance can’t quite pinpoint. He lifts a hand to rub tiredly at his eyes. “I don’t want to fight with you.”

“I don’t want to fight with you, either,” Lance says softly. 

Keith glances back up at him and smiles. “Guess we’ve grown up.”

“Guess so.”

They look out over the water for a moment longer before Lance jerks his thumb back towards the house. “You look tired. Want to turn in early?” Keith nods and follows him back home.

* * *

As it turns out, their guest room and couch are already claimed by errant cousins and various other family members, so Lance’s father digs out an ancient sleeping bag and Keith gets Lance’s floor. Lance tries to give him the bed, but Keith straight up refuses, and he might be the only person in the world who can out-stubborn Lance. He also neglected to bring anything besides his communicator, a toothbrush, and a few extra pairs of underwear. Lance gives him shit, because he has to.

“What, do you sleep in your clothes still?”

Keith shrugs. “Sometimes. It’s easier that way.”

Lance makes a face. “No, it’s not. It’s gross. Do you sleep in those tight fucking jeans you always wear? It wouldn’t kill you to change. Like, do you even have a pair of pajamas?”

“I have one of Shiro’s old t-shirts. I sleep in that if I know I’m not going to have to wake up for a mission or be on call for anything.”

“Okay. Okay, that’s something. Were you planning on sleeping in your clothes here, then?”

Keith shrugs. “I guess I didn’t really think about it.”

“Jesus Christ, dude. Okay, you might be sleeping on the floor but I’m at least getting you something more comfortable to wear.”

“I don’t need—“

Lance silences him with a pointed look and goes to rummage through his closet. He has sixteen years worth of old t-shirts piled up in here, and there’s definitely one he can give to Keith. He’ll have to find a big one, because as much as he hates to admit it, Keith is quite a bit bulkier in the chest and shoulders than he is. He finally unearths one from behind a pile of old hats, an ugly orange tie-dyed thing from when he played soccer for a club team in the years before he left for the Garrison. He remembers distinctly being pissed off because he needed a medium and all the coach had left were larges, in orange. He tosses it to Keith, who catches it deftly and makes a face. 

“I probably have some old sweats around here, too…”

Keith holds up a hand. “No. I don’t need your gross old sweatpants, it’s hot in here. The shirt is fine.” He then proceeds to strip in front of Lance until he’s wearing nothing but black briefs and the t-shirt.

Lance’s chest does that funny rabbit hop again, and he has to excuse himself to brush his teeth before he’s caught staring, though he can’t figure out _why_ he’s staring, it’s just Keith….

When he gets back to the room, Keith’s taken his hair out of his ponytail and is standing next to the window fiddling with the hem of the t-shirt while he reads something on his communicator. 

“Can I see it?” Lance asks before he can stop himself.

Keith slides his gaze over to him. He looks strange and soft like this, hair loose around his shoulders, the old fabric of Lance’s t-shirt tight across his shoulders, shadows under his eyes. Not at all like the serious commander Lance sees more and more often on news snippets these days, or hears through the exhaustion in his voice over the phone.

“See what?” he asks.

“The scar—where you got hurt. I know it was worse than you let on. I talked to Shiro.”

Keith sighs and breaks eye contact. “It’s not that bad.”

“Let me see.”

Keith sighs again, long suffering, and pulls up the edge of the shirt to reveal his stomach and hip. A gnarled, long scar rests right above the jut of his hip bone, red and irritated against the pale skin.

It looks barely healed. It looks like it was deep. It sends a wave of discomfort through Lance and he reaches out before he can think better of it, ghosting his fingertips against the raised skin. Keith flinches, draws back slightly, and Lance snatches his hand away.

“Sorry, sorry. Does it hurt?”

Keith shakes his head slowly, staring at Lance, eyes glinting in the dim light. “Not anymore. It looks worse than it was.”

“Does it? It looks like you got cut in half, man.”

Keith just shrugs, drops his gaze and the hem of the shirt at the same time.

“You did, didn’t you? Get cut in half? I know they didn’t have healing pods where you were and it took them too long to get you to one. Shiro said he had to talk you into it. How the fuck did it happen?”

“I wasn’t cut in half.”

“Keith, I’m not stupid. I know about wounds. I know about scars. I’ve got a few, if you care to remember, and I know what things should look like after a healing pod. I know what a minor wound would look like, enough to know that isn’t one. So what happened, actually?”

“I told you—“

“You weren’t telling me the truth.”

Keith glares at him. Lance glares back, folding his arms. 

“You don’t have to hide stuff from me. I’m not that fragile. I want to know what happened. I want to know who hurt you.”

Keith’s shoulders slump and he sighs. “You’re annoying, you know that?”

“Yep.” He pops the p, just to be confirm it.

“It was an ambush, at the end of a mission. They were targeting me, and they had bad intel. Thought Kolivan was with me, too. Wanted to take us both out.”

“They?” 

Keith shrugs. “One of the rebel groups I was talking about.Galran, we think. They’ve been knocking around in various sectors, minor terrorist attacks, a few empty threats, a few assassination attempts on Blade members. They took responsibility for a few attacks, held a couple of Blade members hostage, wanted information exchanges, diplomatic deals, the usual. We think they’ve been responsible for other attacks they haven’t taken credit for. We’d thought we’d taken care of it; we hadn’t done a good enough job. It was nothing, really.”

“Nothing. A wound like that, how scared Shiro was…you almost died.”

Keith hesitates for a long, trembling moment. “It was touch and go, for a bit. They had to take me to Altea, eventually.”

He knows that. Realizes Keith probably doesn’t know he knows, doesn’t know Allura called him, doesn’t know Lance insisted on seeing the proof of his sleeping body, alive and breathing. His body reacts before his mind reasons through it. He closes the space between them and wraps his arms around Keith, pulls him close, squeezes him. After a moment of shocked stillness, Keith raises his arms to reciprocate.

It’s only the second time he’s ever hugged Keith. It feels strange, foreign. He doesn’t let go.

“You said you always were,” Lance mumbles into his shoulder.

“What?” He can feel the vibrations in his chest when Keith speaks.

“Careful.”

Keith pulls back slightly, though their arms are still around each other.

“I am. Shit still happens.”

“I don’t think I could stand it if anyone else died.”

“I’m not going to die, Lance.”

Lance steps away from him. Keith regards him with dark eyes. “You can’t promise that. No one can. Any of you could die at any time, and I wouldn't know, wouldn’t be able to do anything. Even I could—I don’t know, get shot, or run over by the tractor, anything. Sometimes I go swimming at night when I know the tides are dangerous and sometimes I think I don’t care.” It’s the first time he’s ever voiced this, put words to the quiet desperation that grips him sometimes on his worst nights and it feels like benediction, saying it to Keith in this dark room. Keith doesn’t say anything for a moment. Then, gaze fixed somewhere far away, he says, “I used to ride my bike out in the desert with my eyes closed, after Shiro disappeared. I wouldn’t have cared if I rode off the edge of the world.”

They look at each other for a long moment, and Lance feels bare and exposed, seen and understood in a way he's never felt before. He feels like he needs to say something more profound than what he ends up with, which is, “shit’s hard, man.”

“Yeah,” Keith agrees heavily. “We’re still here, though.”

“Yeah,” Lance echoes.

“It’s late,” Keith says softly, after the silence stretches a little too long. “We should go to bed.”

“Yeah,” Lance says again, stepping away fully and turning towards the bed. Keith plops on the floor on top of the sleeping bag and stretches his legs out. “Sorry for keeping you up.”

“You didn’t keep me up,” Keith says mildly, leaning back against Lance’s dresser and flexing his feet, stretching out his toes. It’s bizarre to see him here, in his childhood room, faded furniture, old posters, glow in the dark stars, and Keith with bare feet and Lance’s shirt from another life. Once again, the past and present clash and he has a hard time seeing the whole of what his life has become.

“I’ve gotta leave on the third at the latest,” Keith says out of the blue, like they’d been talking logistics this whole time. “To the Garrison. I have a meeting.”

“Hey, that’s the same—oh. Oh, I get it.”

Keith squints at him. Lance wonders for the umpteenth time if the guy needs glasses. He’s always squinting. “What?”

“You just _happen_ to have a meeting at the Garrison that requires you to go there the same day I just _happen_ to need to leave for instructor training? Yeah, no, I get it. Veronica had to go back early so _she_ couldn’t babysit me, and they sent you here to make sure I actually showed up. Well, I know it’s hard to believe but I think I can make it on my own. Would have been cool to see you without an ulterior motive involved, too.”

Keith raises a single eyebrow. “Can you?”

Lance crosses his arms. “What, get to the Garrison? Leave the farm? Yeah, I can.”

“Well you haven’t managed it so far.”

“Don’t be a dick.”

“I’m not being a dick. Look, Lance, would it be so bad if someone was with you? Maybe it would help. I didn’t plan to visit based on that, and no one sent me. I already told you, we’re not all plotting against you, okay? But I thought it wouldn’t hurt.”

“I don’t need your help.”

Keith rolls his eyes. “Whatever, man. It’s just a plane ride.”

“Yeah. Yeah, it’s just a plane ride. Which is why I don’t need anyone to babysit me.”

Keith lays down and pulls the sleeping bag over himself, turning away from Lance. “I’m not babysitting, and we’re not having this argument this late. You can yell at me in the morning if you’re still mad about it. Goodnight.”

“You’re at _my house_!” Lance says, outraged. “You’re a guest! You can’t tell me what to do.”

“I technically outrank you,” Keith mumbles. “So. I can tell you what to do whenever I want. Especially when we’re at the Garrison.”

“You don’t _outrank me_ , you’re a Commander—“

Keith rolls back to face him. “I’m a Commander with the Blade, but I'm a Captain with the Garrison, _Commander_ , so watch it.”

Lance sits up in bed, sputtering. “What the—since when—why did _you_ get Captain ranking? No one told me—Shiro said we were all _Commanders_ —“

Keith smirks at him. “Well, not all of us were the _leaders of Voltron_ , so I guess that had something to do with it—“

Lance launches himself out of bed before Keith can finish and lands nearly on top of Keith. Keith’s ready for him, though, bracing himself and wiggling his legs out of the sleeping bag before Lance can get a good grip on him. He rolls Lance effortlessly, which is just _annoying,_ Lance know’s he’s out of shape but Keith doesn’t have to show off. They grapple for awhile, grunting, struggling like they used to on the training deck of the Castle of Lions. Lance gets in a few good jabs, but it’s clear Keith is the one who’s kept up on his training and he pins Lance easily enough, panting slightly and grinning as Lance wiggles beneath him.

“Jealous?” he asks. “Not very good, for you to attack a _superior officer_ like that.”

“I’m gonna kill you,” Lance spits. “I hate you so much.”

Keith just laughs at him, and it hits Lance suddenly that their faces are very close, Keith’s hair hanging down to brush against his cheeks, his hands tight vices around his wrists, the weight of his body pinning him down, his muscles visible under the thin t-shirt. 

It hits him suddenly that he doesn’t mind being under Keith like this. That he could stay here awhile, that he wouldn’t mind if Keith leaned down a little farther and—

Oh.

_Shit._

He bucks up and wiggles harder and Keith rolls off him easily, still laughing. He’s grateful for the darkness of the room, the late hour, because if there was any light in here at all he knows the flush over his face, down his neck, would be impossible to hide.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

Not Keith.

Never Keith.

How could he _ever_ see Keith like—ever think of him like—like _that_?

“Whatever, Captain,” he croaks, hoping his voice is steady enough, turning his face away so Keith can’t see his expression. “You’re still not the boss in my house. And I _am_ pissed, and I still will be tomorrow.”

“Fair enough,” Keith says, still laughing, wiggling back under the sleeping bag. “But I’m still not here to babysit, no matter what you think.”

“Whatever,” Lance grumbles again, pulling himself back into bed and determinedly facing the wall away from Keith. “We can go together. It doesn’t make a difference to me.”

“Good,” Keith says. “Goodnight, Lance.”

He doesn’t reply. He spends the next hour staring at the shadows playing on the wall, listening to Keith’s slow, soft breathing, trying desperately to erase the feeling of Keith’s body pressed against his.

* * *

He’s running. Running after Keith. They’re in terrible danger, he thinks. In the middle of a battle, maybe? Maybe. They’re taking heavy fire. The lions will come for them soon. The ground crumbles away to nothing around them.

Ahead of him, Keith turns. He shouts something Lance can’t hear and extends a hand, urging him to move faster. The lions will come any moment.

The ground beneath Keith’s feet shatters and he falls into nothingness. Lance screams out his name, but he can’t hear his own voice. Moments later, he’s falling too, through black, dark, space, nothing around him except for Keith, falling below him, face upturned, hand still extended.

He tries to call for Blue, for Red. He can’t feel any connection. They don’t answer him.

Because they’re gone.

They’re gone, and they’re not coming to save them.

They’re going to die.

He wakes screaming Keith’s name, sweating, shaking. Though his eyes open to soft moonlight illuminating his familiar room, he doesn’t realize where he is at first. He gasps, trying to fight free of the sheets, but he’s tangled in them, trapped, _trapped_ —

Then, hands. Cool against his overheated skin when they brush across it, pulling the sheets away from him, out from between his legs, freeing him. A hand rests on his shoulder and he flinches back, still trying to find where he is, when he is. The hand moves away immediately. He’s gasping for air, but through the sound he can hear a voice. Quiet. Calm. Controlled. Saying his name.

“Lance. _Lance_.”

His eyes catch on the outline of a poster on his wall. A star map of the northern hemisphere. It glows in the dark. It’s been on that wall across from his bed for as long as he can remember, the first thing he saw whenever he opened his eyes, woken from good dreams or bad. He drags in a long breath. “Keith.”

“Lance,” Keith sounds relieved. He’s right there, kneeling on the bed on Lance’s sweat-soaked sheets, hands up and hovering like he can’t figure out what to do with them. “You with me?”

He squeezes his eyes shut hard enough to see stars. “I don’t know.”

“Can I touch you?”

He nods once and Keith’s hand settles back on his shoulder, a cool weight, thumb rubbing slight circles against his skin. “You were yelling my name,” he says after a moment of silence filled by Lance’s heavy breaths.

“You died,” Lance says bluntly. “I dream about you dying a lot.”

“A long-lasting fantasy fulfilled?” Keith asks wryly, clearly trying to make light of the situation, but Lance can’t make light, not yet. He rolls away from Keith, digging the palms of his hands into his eyes until it hurts. Keith’s eyes are on him, burning, and he feels exposed and raw in front of him, crying, scared, weak. And yet, this is what he’s wanted all those times he’s woken alone and screaming over the last few months. Just someone next to him, to pull him out of it.

The fact that it’s Keith here doing that is just…strange. But not bad.

Keith scoots closer behind him, puts a cool hand to the nape of his neck, grounding him. “I’m sorry,” he whispers. “I didn’t mean…I shouldn’t have said that.”

“I don’t like it,” Lance grinds out. “I don’t like seeing it over and over.”

“I’m here, though,” Keith sounds helpless. “I’m right here. I’m not going to die.”

Lance rolls back over, dislodging Keith’s hand and glaring at him through tears. “I already told you, stop saying that. You almost did. Most of the time I have no idea where you are or what you’re doing. Don’t tell me nothing’s going to happen to you.”

Keith looks shattered din the dim glow of the moon. “I didn’t realize it was this bad. I thought it was getting better. You were screaming. You wouldn’t wake up.”

“It’s better than it used to be,” Lance says, finally in control of his own body enough to sit upright and bury his head in his knees. Keith crowds closer to his side, not quite touching, and lays his hand once again on the back of his neck. For a long time, Lance thinks the conversation is over, but then Keith speaks again.

“I’m sorry what I do worries you. I have to do it, though. Just like you have to stay here and help. I feel like I have to be out there helping, too.” Lance glances up and looks at Keith, staring off at nothing, face twisted. “I don’t want to hurt anyone, though. Shiro has nightmares, too. I’ve heard him. I know he’s worried. I know what I do is dangerous. But I can’t not do it. I wish you didn’t worry.”

“Tough. That’s what you get when a bunch of people care about you,” Lance mumbles into his knees, parroting Keith’s own words to him a few months before.

He can hear the small smile in Keith’s voice when he says, “I guess. And I’m here now.”

Lance leans in and bumps his shoulder against Keith’s. Keith relaxes slightly against him, until they’re leaning on each other. “You’re here now,” he repeats. “I’m glad.”

“Me too.”

After a few more minutes of silence, Keith makes to get off the bed and return to the floor. In a fit of what might be masochism, Lance reaches out and grips Keith’s wrist.

“Stay.”

Keith’s eyebrows shoot up into his hair. “What?”

He’s grateful for the dim light of the moon and his deep tan—hopefully enough to disguise the blush rising on his cheeks. “I mean—I usually have more nightmares when I fall back asleep. Maybe…if you’re right here, I might not?”

Keith’s pale complexion does him no such favors, and Lance thinks he can see a flush high on his cheekbones as he stares at him, but it’s probably just because he’s weirded out. It’s totally weird for your buddy to ask you to share his bed, even if it’s just to chase away nightmares. 

To his shock, though, Keith settles back down. “Okay,” he says. “If you think it’ll help.” He wiggles down until his head rests on the pillows, but doesn’t make a move to get under the covers, keeping a careful distance between them, or as much of one as he can on a twin bed not made to accommodate two grown men. 

“You can get under the blanket,” Lance says, hating himself as he speaks. Is he looking to wake up with an obvious hard on?

Keith shrugs. “I’m too hot, anyway.”

“Okay,” he replies, sliding gingerly down until he, too, is resting back on the pillows, pulling the sheet up to cover his legs. Beside him, Keith closes his eyes, but stays stiff, obviously awake. He closes his eyes too and tries not to think too much about how he can hear Keith’s breathing, how he can feel his warmth even across the foot of space between them, how his hand felt weighing on the back of his neck. Next to him, Keith relaxes by degrees, not moving an inch, but melting into the mattress, breath evening out. When Lance sneaks his eyes open again, Keith’s face is turned towards him, mouth open slightly, hand slack where it’s draped across his stomach. 

His stomach quakes and he has to turn away from the sight, curling on his side away from Keith, willing himself to sleep. It takes a long time, but he does, eventually, slips from waking without even realizing it. 

He doesn’t dream.

And when he wakes up to the first rays of sun sliding into the room, inevitably, the distance between them has shrunk; his back is pressed against Keith’s side, Keith’s face tucked into the back of his neck, breath warm and fanning against his skin.

He slides out of bed without waking him and slips from the room, composing himself long before Keith comes down for coffee. Spends the rest of the day trying to forget the feeling of another body in his bed. Tries to stop himself from hoping to feel it again the next night.

That night, though, Keith comes back from the bathroom and gets onto the bed without a word. Lance opens his mouth to say something about it but Keith quells him with a look.

“You didn’t dream last night, after,” he says by way of explanation. Lance can’t deny it, and he’s not going to argue with Keith if he wants to. Part of him wonders if Keith, too, enjoys the warmth of another body.

Then again, for all he knows, Keith shares his bed with someone every night on Daibazaal. Would Keith tell him if he was seeing someone? If he was just fucking someone? Or a different someone every night? Keith’s famous, he’s powerful, he’s attractive. He’s probably got a line of people who would pay money to spend a night with him. 

He shoves down the thoughts as forcefully as he can as Keith makes himself comfortable next to him, curling on his side and yawning. They still keep him awake for most of the night, staring at Keith, relaxed and sprawled next to him, arm flung up above his head, hair coming loose from his braid and tangling across the pillow, lightly snoring until he shifts his position onto his back, rolling closer to Lance, hand flopping to rest inches from his face.

When he does sleep, he escapes the dreams again.

When he wakes, they’re pressed together again, predictable, inevitable, obvious. This time, he gives himself a moment to breathe in the warmth, the aliveness of Keith, the brush of his eyelashes against the skin of his shoulder, the sunlight pooling in the hollow of his throat. His shirt is rucked up slightly, the edge of the scar stark red against his skin in the sunlight.

Again, he slips away without waking Keith. 

Again, when night comes, Keith climbs into bed with him without a word.

Again, Lance’s sleep remains dreamless.

Again, again, again.

* * *

**_Group Message: Lance Protection Squad_ **

_09:57 January 02, 21XX_

**_Kogayne:_ ** _He’s doing okay. Nightmares are definitely still a problem, but that’s not surprising_

**_H-man:_ ** _yeah i mean we all get those_

**_H-man:_ ** _I’m sure it helps to have someone there_

**_Takashi_ ** _: ETA for tomorrow?_

**_Kogayne:_ ** _Flight leaves here at 2 pm. Should be there by 4 at the latest_

**_Takashi:_ ** _Good. do you think it’ll be a problem?_

**_Kogayne:_ ** _I’ll get him there_

**_Kogayne:_ ** _I promised I would_

**_Takashi:_ ** _I trust you. See you tomorrow_

**_Gremlin:_ ** _CAN’T WAIT !!!_

**_Queen of (our) Hearts:_ ** _I’ll be arriving the day after. It will be wonderful to see you all!_

**_H-man:_ ** _Ugh i’m jealous_

**_Gremlin:_ ** _Just come for like a day Hunk. we need a reunion_

**_H-man:_ ** _Kind of short notice_

**_Queen of (our) Hearts:_ ** _Hunk, you’re in Altea’s system. Just come here tomorrow and then accompany Coran and I. It would be wonderful to all be in the same place, even if it is just for a night_

**_H-man:_ ** _I could probably make it work. It would be a nice surprise for Lance_

**_Kogayne:_ ** _good idea actually. he misses everyone. he’s terrible at pretending he’s fine when he’s not_

**_Queen of (our) Hearts:_ ** _Wonderful! It’s a plan, then. I will see you all soon!_

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Y'all remember how Lance literally died and then they just never talked about that again? 
> 
> Please correct my Spanish if it's wrong.


	5. Break

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was really not working for me but I've had enough of fiddling with it and editing and just want to get it out there so here you go...15,000 words of filler chapter. As always, if you notice Spanish mistakes, please point them out!
> 
> A warning: violence, blood, and minor character deaths in this chapter.

“Lance!”

Objectively, he recognizes that the step from solid ground onto the shuttle jet is just that—a single step. Not even a big one. It feels like someone’s asking him to jump across the Grand Canyon.

“Lance.” He can’t look up at the voice, his eyes are too glued to the ground in front of him, his backpack heavy on his shoulders, his heartbeat loud in his ears. He’s holding up the line. He knows that.

A hand appears in his field of vision. Rough skin, fingernails bitten to the quick, those stupid fingerless gloves.

“Come on.” The fingers wiggle in invitation. Lance forces his own hand up, sets it in Keith’s palm. Keith’s fingers close over his and he tugs. Not a lot, just enough to tip Lance’s center of gravity forward. He takes a halting step forward. Another.

He gets on the shuttle. 

Takeoff is a nightmare. He can’t breathe and he can’t stop his body from shaking itself apart, and all he can see are the lions in a million pieces floating through space, the endless seas of stars in other galaxies far from home, all he can hear is the silence of deep space, even though Keith’s talking to him, trying to get him to breathe, to open his eyes. Eventually, he feels hands on his back, shoving him down, and Keith’s warm hand on the back of his neck, a solid weight holding him down with his head between his knees. For some reason, he can breathe better in this position, and Keith’s voice filters in through the fuzz of static buzzing in his ears. 

“Breathe,” Keith says in his ear. “Just breathe, Lance. You’re okay.”

Breathe. In and out. He’s okay.

“You’re okay,” Keith says again. One of Keith’s hands starts rubbing his back while the other stays heavy on his neck. In. Out.

In.

Out.

He manages to sit up and take a real breath forty five minutes later, somewhere over Texas. The land below them is red, blasted desert and Lance feels something stir in his chest. He missed the desert. He missed Arizona. He missed the Garrison.

“Thanks,” he croaks at Keith, who just nods and hands him a water bottle, which Lance gulps greedily. He should be mortified that Keith saw him like that, but at this point it’s old news. He’d be expending too much energy if he was mortified every time Keith saw him crumble into a total wreck.

“Not so bad, is it?” Keith asks, digging a beat-up paperback out of the pocket of his jacket. 

“Speak for yourself,” Lance snorts, but he’s right. Now that they’re off the ground and coasting above Earth without any plans to leave the atmosphere, he can admit it’s not as bad as he was thinking it would be. It’s a far cry from space travel, but he was expecting to spend the entire flight curled up in a ball somewhere anyway. And he’s not. Not even vaguely panicking at this very moment. Ninety-percent thanks to Keith, but he’s not going to think too much about that. 

Landing is still rough, because the descent feels a lot like falling, a lot like crashing, and he spends the whole time curled back in on himself, hands over his ears, Keith’s hands steady again on his back, warm and grounding. The moment they land, with a jarring thud, brings him right back to the crash of Red hitting the hard desert rocks outside the Garrison after the fight for Earth, the noise, the pain, the confusion, the fear. He grips his own arms hard enough to bruise and forgets to breathe long enough for his head to start feeling fuzzy. Keith’s voice is in his ear, though, and it wasn’t when he crashed, and they settle onto the ground gently—he's not thrown from his seat, nothing hurts except for the spots where his fingernails dig into the skin of his arms, and Keith’s there, prying his hands from his own flesh and holding them instead, and there’s chatter and movement around them—other people, living, speaking, alive.

He’s alive.

He looks up. Keith crouches in front of him, holding his hands, eyes dark and jaw set. Lance yanks his hands away, fingers burning.

Keith clears his throat. “We’re here.”

“Yep,” Lance says hoarsely. 

Keith squints at him. “You okay?”

“Great,” he croaks. Keith, by some mercy, decides not to push it and stands, catching Lance’s wrist and pulling him up with him.

Lance booked a flight on a civilian shuttle, so they’re dropped off at the port in the bustling town surrounding the Garrison. Outside the building, they fight through the crowds until Keith spots Veronica, leaning against a Garrison truck. She waves at them energetically as they pick their way through the crowds towards her and pulls Lance into a bruising hug the moment he’s within arms reach. To his surprise, she doesn’t say anything remotely rude about being surprised to actually see him, etc etc, she just whispers “Good job,” in his ear, before moving on to hug Keith with equal enthusiasm. He looks vaguely overwhelmed. 

She chatters about the new cadet class and the Atlas and the work coming out of the labs and Axca for the whole ride to the Garrison and when they arrive, before Lance is even fully out of the car, something heavy slams into his midsection and sends him reeling against the door. 

“Lance, you asshole,” Pidge yells, voice muffled by his shirt. “You _said_ you’d come visit!”

He pats her awkwardly on the head. “You could have visited me, you know.” He tries to sound wry and unaffected but in truth it’s so good to see her it physically hurts. 

She pulls back to glare at him. “I’m still grounded.”

Lance frowns. “Aren’t you eighteen? Is that allowed?”

“Not until April. And believe me, on the stroke of midnight I’m getting out of here. No one’s gonna be able to stop me.” She raises her voice during the last bit, pointedly looking behind her where Colleen Holt is giving Keith a firm hug, which he looks decidedly uncomfortable about. She glances up at Pidge’s words and smiles sweetly at them. Lance shudders, and makes a note to never get on her bad side. She certainly makes good on her threats. 

“Anyway,” Pidge is saying, “I have _so much_ to show you; I know I sent you that picture of the rover robot mock-ups a few months ago or whatever, but you won’t believe how far I’ve gotten on that! Obviously higher tech than the original, and I’ve added a lot of modifications that can work in various circumstances, you know, like battles or if someone needs a companion to help them out, almost like a seeing-eye dog, or even if you need someone to play against you in a game, and it’s really impressive tech, not to toot my own horn, but—“

“Woah,” Lance says, holding up a hand, head spinning from the speed of her words. “Slow down. I can’t wait to see it, Pigeon.” He glances over her head towards Keith, who’s now being embraced by Shiro and looks like he can’t breathe. “Just gimme a minute. Just had an eventful flight.”

She softens slightly and steps back, looking him up and down. “Yeah. How did it go?”

He can’t lie to her so he just shrugs. “About as well as expected. But I made it.”

She punches his shoulder. It’s meant to be friendly, but it hurts a bit. “I’m proud of you.”

“Thanks, Pidge.”

“Lance!” He looks past Pidge and sees Allura hurrying towards him, Coran hot on her heels. He’d known she would be here and was expecting their in-person reunion to be awkward, but all he feels is joy when she rushes towards him. He throws his arms around her first, then withdraws slightly, wondering if that was beyond their new boundaries. She clutches him close, though, doesn’t let go. Behind her, Coran booms, “Lance, my boy! So good to see you!” and wraps his arms around both of them at once. 

They hold each other for a long time, until Pidge shouts, “Stop being sappy, you three, you forgot about the surprise!”

Allura draws back and glares at Pidge, but it’s too late. Lance asks, “What surprise?” and Hunk pops out from around the corner, waving his arms. “Sorry guys!” he says, already crying. “I know I was supposed to wait, but I gotta join the hug fest!” He passes Keith first and picks him up, hugging him so tightly Keith gasps for air, and then beelines towards Lance and gives him the same treatment. Lance is so shocked to see him he doesn’t know what to say, just dumbly pats him on the back while Hunk cries into his neck.

“You…weren’t supposed to be here?” he says weakly.

“I know!” Hunk laughs through his tears. “I didn’t really plan it until a couple days ago. But everyone else was coming and I just thought it would be nice…”

“We’re all together again,” Lance whispers. They haven’t been since the disastrous Alliance celebration, when everything fell apart. “Oh my god, Hunk, _thank you_.” He tightens his arms around Hunk’s neck and tries not to let the heat gathering behind his eyelids fall.

Pidge wiggles her way under Hunk’s arm and joins the hug. Behind him, Allura sniffs and wraps her arms around Lance from behind. Shiro, dragging an unwilling-looking Keith behind him, steps up and rests a hand on Lance’s shoulder. “It’s good to see you,” he says, smiling. “It’s good to see all of you.” Coran blows his nose into a handkerchief and wraps one arm around Keith and one arm around Hunk. “Just like the good old days,” he says, voice thick. “Oh dear, here I am getting teary-eyed!”

“The good old days when we were getting blown up by the Galra three times a week?” Pidge asks, voice muffled by Hunk’s armpit.

“It wasn’t all bad,” Lance says, and—yep, he’s crying.

So is everyone else, though, so it’s okay.

* * *

Dinner is a lively affair. They take over a corner of the mess hall and Veronica somehow got her hands on a bottle of tequila and Coran brought something stronger than that, and even the MFE pilots are there, minus Leifsdottir, who’s out of town. By the end of it, Lance is more than a little drunk and mostly in Hunk’s lap. Hunk’s soft, warm, comfortable lap, which Lance used to have the pleasure and privilege of sitting on whenever he wanted and is now so far away most of the time it makes him sad to think about it.

“Thanks, buddy,” Hunk says, amused. “I like cuddling with you, too.”

“You don’t _understand,”_ Lance moans. “You don’ get it. You’re so great, Hunk.”

“I know I am.”

“He knows he is,” Pidge chimes in. “You’re gonna give him a superiority complex.”

Lance sticks his tongue out at her. “He deserves a superiority complex because he is. Superior.”

Pidge rolls her eyes. He feels Hunk laughing against him. 

“Keith’s not as cuddly as you are,” he says, and Hunk’s laughter stops abruptly. “Keith, huh?” he says. “You have a lot of experience cuddling with him?”

“Mmmhmm,” Lance hums, staring across the table towards where Keith and Griffin are locked in an intense conversation. Keith’s waving his hands around and his brows are furrowed and his hair’s down and loose for once, wavy and dark, and the hoop in his ear glints in the light and he’s…really pretty. So pretty.

“Did he just say he’s pretty?” Pidge mutters. Hunk shrugs. “Uh…Lance, buddy?”

Lance yawns and finishes his glass of…whatever it is Coran brought, which is definitely strong. “‘M tired.” Matt, Rizavi, and Shiro and Curtis have already left for bed.

“Maybe we should get you to bed,” Hunk says. “It’s late.”

Lance shakes his head. “Gotta wait for Keith.”

“Why?” Pidge asks.

“Gotta sleep,” Lance mumbles, which is the best he can do to explain. Luckily, Keith’s yawning, clapping Griffin on the back, pushing away from the table.

“Keith!” Lance says, holding his arms out. Pidge starts sniggering and he shoots her a glare.

Keith reddens slightly. “Hi, Lance.”

“Good grief,” Hunk says. “I didn’t think it was like _this_.”

“It’s not _like anything_ , Hunk,” Keith snaps, blushing harder. Lance doesn’t really know what’s going on, so he just makes grabby hands at Keith until Keith, sighing, pulls him to his feet. Once he’s there, he sways alarmingly, and Keith has to steady him.

“How much have you had to drink?” he asks accusingly.

“A lot,” Hunk mumbles.

“A lot,” Lance grins. “Let’s go to bed.”

Keith pulls his arm around his neck and winds an arm around his waist. He’s warm. Lance sighs and rests his head on his shoulder.

“Oh my god,” says Pidge.

“What’s going _on_?” Hunk asks incredulously. 

“We’re sleeping together now,” Lance says matter-of-factly, and Hunk falls out of his chair. 

Keith slaps a hand over Lance’s mouth. “Lance, Jesus! Not like that,” he says to Hunk, who’s choking. 

“ _Like what, then?”_ Pidge hisses.

Keith’s arm tightens imperceptibly around his waist. “It helps him with the nightmares. It’s only been the last few nights. _Just_ sleeping.”

“Oh,” Hunk says, sitting up, trying valiantly to compose himself. “Uh, well…if you want a break, I can definitely stay with him tonight.”

This time there’s no way Lance is imagining the tightening of Keith’s grip. “No,” he says casually. “I don’t mind. Come on, Lance.”

They stumble out of the mess hall, Hunk and Pidge staring openmouthed after them. “Walk, Lance,” Keith mutters as Lance drags his feet. He rests his head back on Keith’s shoulder. “‘M so drunk.”

“I couldn’t tell,” Keith says dryly.

“You don’ have to stay with me,” he slurs, wondering if Keith even wants to. “”m okay.”

“I don’t mind, Lance,” Keith says. “It, uh. It helps me, too.”

Lance stops in his tracks, sending Keith stumbling. He curses. “Really?” Lance asks. “You don’t have bad dreams.”

Keith sighs, frustrated. “Yeah I do, I just don’t wake up screaming.” He readjusts his hold and keeps them moving down the hallway towards the staff apartments. “And, since you won’t remember this in the morning, I like having you close. Makes me feel less…worried.”

“You worry about me?” Lance asks hazily. Keith doesn’t need to worry about him.

“All the time,” Keith mutters under his breath.

“ _I_ worry about _you_. You’re the one who’s off—out there—I’m just fuckin’…mikling—malkin’—“

“Milking,” Keith supplies helpfully.

“Mmmmyeah. Kaltenecker. Feedin’ chickens. _Weeding_.”

“There are other reasons to worry, Lance.” The sincerity in his voice cuts into Lance.

“Do you…do you really care about me that much?”

Keith digs Lance’s keycard out of his pocket to open the door to his brand new quarters. “Yeah, Lance, we’ve been over this. Of course I do. Come on.” He drags Lance through the door and deposits him on the bed. Before he can walk away, Lance grabs his arm to keep him close.

Very close. Their noses are touching. Maybe this is too close? All Lance can see are Keith’s eyes and Keith’s lips and Keith _cares about him_ and _god_ , he’s so drunk.

“I care about you too,” he whispers. And the natural thing to do, it seems, is to lean just another inch and brush his lips over Keith’s. Just to satisfy the curiosity—they’re as he imagined. Soft and warm, a little chapped. He could use some lip balm.

“You could use some lip balm,” he tells Keith, drawing back. Keith doesn’t answer. He’s frozen, eyes blown wide, flush high on his cheeks. Lance tips over into the pillows and they’re so soft, so warm…he’s so tired.

He doesn’t even pull his feet up onto the bed before he falls asleep.

* * *

Lance wakes to a splitting headache, dry mouth, and no Keith. The mussed sheets next to him and the painkillers left on the nightstand are proof he must have been there, though, and it’s not too late, so he can’t be far. Lance is more preoccupied by the pickaxe boring into his skull and the strong desire to find Coran and kill him. What the hell was that stuff? He’d only had a few glasses, and he’s pretty sure he nearly blacked out. He has a fuzzy memory of sitting on Hunk’s lap, and of Keith dragging him to bed, but beyond that there’s not much going on. He groans and rolls over, burying his face in the pillows.

They smell like Keith, which means he was definitely here.

He takes a minute to feel vague concern over how he now knows exactly what Keith smells like, and tries to put it out of his head. Never gonna happen. _Can’t_ happen. 

God. 

He checks the time again. He has an hour before he’s supposed to meet with Shiro and Iverson. On this particular day, his morning routine can go fuck itself. He sets his alarm for another forty-five minutes of sleep and buries his face in Keith’s side of the bed.

He doesn’t see Keith all day, which isn’t that surprising, given the meetings going on. Shiro barely had time to duck away from one to meet with Lance to show him his classroom, go over pages and pages of protocols, and give him a rundown of the semester’s schedule. No one else is around, either. Pidge is hard at work in the lab and doesn’t like being disturbed, Matt, Allura, and Coran are also in meetings, and Hunk’s gone to visit his parents for the day. It makes him feel a bit strange—not too long ago, he would have been at those meetings and now he’s skulking outside them, waiting for his friends to tell him what they talked about.

When the meetings finally let out, Keith brushes past him with barely a glance, heading straight towards the Garrison’s training rooms. Shiro shoots Lance an apologetic glance and follows.

“What the hell,” Lance mumbles, trying not to feel offended. Since when were he and Keith back at the ignoring each other phase?

Coran pats his shoulder. “He got a bit restless in there. Ruffkins in his pants! Not too happy about how some of the negotiations went. He probably just needs to blow off some steam.”

Lance blinks at him. “Ruffkins?”

Coran waves his hand. “Oh, you know. Little buggers. Lots of legs. Find ‘em crawling all over your food at a picnic.” He makes a face and shudders.

“Ants?” Lance says.

“Ants?” Coran parrots back.

“Anyone up for food?” Matt interrupts. “I’m starving.”

Keith doesn’t show up for dinner. He’s not around after dinner, either, and Lance still has some pride, he’s not going to wander around the Garrison like a lost puppy looking for him before bed. He goes back to his room alone and curls up in bed, face buried in the pillow that still smells faintly of Keith.

* * *

He wakes up to the blaring alarm on the first day of classes and immediately starts analyzing ways to escape the Garrison without being detected. It’s one of the most heavily monitored places on Earth now, so his likelihood of success is excruciatingly low, but at this point he’d rather be arrested and interrogated by his own employer than get up in front of a class and try to teach.

Before he can perfect his escape plan, or even get fully out of bed, there’s a sharp knock on the door and it swings open before he can even react. Funny. He thought he’d locked that.

“How’d you get in?” he rasps as Pidge strides into the room, followed closely by Keith. It’s Lance’s first sighting of him in the last few days and he doesn’t look happy to be there, staring determinedly at the floor and sticking close to the door. Pidge rolls her eyes. “Please. You think I can’t override a locking mechanism as simple as this one?” 

“Okay,” Lance says, rubbing his eyes. “ _Why_ are you here, then?”

Pidge straightens to her full height, which isn’t that intimidating, but behind her, Keith straightens too, and glares at him. Lance thinks he sees the barest hint of yellow in his eyes. That is intimidating.

“We’re here to get breakfast,” Keith says in a wooden tone. It sounds rehearsed. Pidge rolls her eyes again. Lance stares at them. “No, you’re not.”

“Well, to be fair, I am quite hungry,” Pidge says. “And Keith’s leaving after breakfast, so I figured you wouldn’t want to miss your chance to kiss him goodbye.” 

Lance stiffens at that and hisses out a furious “ _Pidge_ ,” but Keith’s reaction is even more severe. He turns bright red, chokes, and turns on his heel to leave the room. Pidge darts out a hand and grabs him by the collar, dragging him back to stand by her side, exuding an air of innocence. “Oh, did I hit a nerve? Get dressed, Lance. We’ll be outside.”

He’s still blushing by the time he yanks the door open, dressed in the uncomfortable Garrison uniform and feeling completely out of his depth. “You’re just here to make sure I actually go to the class,” he grumbles at Pidge as he walks past them towards the mess hall.

“Good deduction,” she says, catching up to him, still dragging a silent Keith in tow. “Don’t tell me you weren’t trying to figure out how to get out of it.”

He presses his lips together and ignores her. He doesn’t want to give her the satisfaction. She doesn’t seem bothered by the cold shoulder—she chatters all the way to the mess hall and all the way through breakfast while Lance panics internally and Keith sits like a stone, barely eating. A modicum of Lance’s brainpower, the minor bit that isn’t consumed by fear, wonders if he’s okay. He'd ask him about it if Keith wasn't being such a dick all of a sudden.

They’re not left alone until Pidge goes to the bathroom after breakfast, leaving them to wait in the hallway with a pointed glare towards Lance and a growled “ _Wait_ for me.” Lance fidgets. Keith stares at the floor. 

“You really leaving right now?”

Keith’s head jerks up and he makes eye contact with Lance for a moment before dropping his gaze again. “Yeah,” he says, scuffing his boot against the floor. “I’ve already been gone longer than I said I’d be.”

Lance bites his lip, tries to stuff down the wave of dread that rises in his chest at the thought of Keith being gone. He’s grown used to having him at his side the last few weeks.

“Right,” he manages, and then can’t force out any other words. “Uh. Right.”

Keith looks up at him again. “I’ll be back soon. Probably.”

“Right,” Lance says again. A beat of silence. He licks his lips. “Like, _now_ now?”

Keith nods. “I won’t be here after you’re done teaching. I want to stay, but…” he shrugs helplessly. 

Lance swallows. “Yeah. Yeah, I mean, of course. You have stuff to get back to.”

Keith scuffs his toes on the floor again. He still won’t meet Lance’s eyes. “Yeah.”

Pidge comes out of the bathroom, wiping her hands on her pants. “Okay,” she says. “Should we deliver the professor to his classroom?”

Keith gives a short nod and turns on his heel, striding down the hall. Lance stares after him, feels like there’s more to say but he’s not sure what. Pidge mistakes his hesitation for fear and grabs his arm, hauling him after Keith. They arrive at the simulator room and adjacent classroom far too quickly, and the anxiety curls back up his throat. 

“Alright man,” Pidge says, punching his shoulder with unnecessary force. “Get in there and knock their socks off.”

“It’s another hour until the class starts,” Lance points out.

“Prep time,” she says, and turns to leave. “I’ll leave you guys to it. See you before you leave?” The last part she directs to Keith and he nods. She wiggles her fingers at them with a smirk and strides back the way they came.

“Well,” Lance says after she’s gone.

“Yeah,” Keith replies, still not meeting his eyes. It’s starting to drive him a little crazy. Tentatively, he reaches out and grips Keith’s shoulder, squeezing slightly. “I’m glad you came. It was nice to have you visiting. And…thanks for, uh. You know. The flight thing.”

Keith nods, finally looks at him. There’s something shuttered and unreadable in his expression, but he still smiles. “I’m glad it worked out. It was fun.”

“Yeah. I—“ he swallows. _I’ll miss you. I don't want you to leave. I’m worried about you, please be safe. Please come back. I want you to come back._

“Uh. Be careful. No more run-ins with assassins, if you can help it.”

Keith looks at him for a long moment and then steps forward into his space and wraps his arms around him. A hug. Keith is _hugging him_. It shouldn’t be such a shock, so foreign, after days of sharing a bed, but Keith almost never hugs anyone—he’s still not one for much physical contact—and Lance freezes for an awkwardly long moment. Eventually, he remembers himself and brings his own arms up to embrace Keith, dropping his head onto his shoulder and burying his nose in his hair. Sandalwood and soap and a slight hint of musky sweat. Keith. 

“You worry too much,” Keith murmurs in his ear.

“Can’t help it.”

Keith sighs and Lance feels it, the rise and fall of his back beneath his hands, the expansion of his chest. “I know. You too.”

“When will you be back?”

Keith pulls back a little and looks at him. “I don’t know. I will be. I promise.”

Lance could restart the old argument. _You can’t promise anything. You can’t promise you’ll be safe. I can’t promise I will be, either._ He resists, just swallows, pulls Keith close again, and says, “Okay.”

If a few stray tears escape after Keith leaves, as he sits at his new, huge desk and tries to scrape his lesson plan together, nobody will ever know.

* * *

Twenty kids stand in front of him, dressed in the uncomfortable orange uniforms Lance remembers from his cadet days. They’re staring at him, wide-eyed and unspeaking, and this was _such a bad idea_. He’s going to kill Shiro. And Keith. And everyone else who said this would be good for him.

“Hi,” he says, sounding uncertain even to himself. “I’m Lance. Er, Commander McClain.”

A girl’s hand shoots up. He points at her. “Uh. Yes?”

“You’re the Blue Paladin!” she says, sounding like she can’t quite believe it.

“No,” says a kid behind her, practically vibrating with excitement. “He’s the _Red_ Paladin.”

“No you idiot,” says another boy, who reminds him painfully of Keith, with a mop of dark hair and a sour expression. “He switched lions.”

“That’s _so cool_ ,” the first girl says rapturously. 

“Do we get to fly lions?” someone asks from the back.

“The lions are _gone_ , Jason.”

“I don’t mean _those_ lions, dumbass!”

“Okay,” Lance says, raising his voice over the clamor. “Rule number one: no calling each other dumbasses. Rule number two: no calling each other idiots. Rule number three: no one’s flying anything, yet. This is your first flight class, so we’re starting with the basics: simulators. Give it two more years and you might get some lions.”

“Simulators are lame,” someone grumbles from the back.

Lance smiles. “I used to think that, too. But let me tell you a secret! I’ve never told anyone else this.”

They all fall silent. One kid in the front actually leans in closer to listen.

“My team and I completely botched a simulator run the day before I went to space. One day, I was sitting in this very room, running through a simulation and failing miserably, and the next I was getting shot into space, piloting the blue lion.”

“Woah,” someone says. Lance thinks it might be the Keith kid.

“While I was behind Blue’s controls, I had no idea what was going on. I was panicking. I tried to play it off, like the cool guy I am,” he gets a few giggles from that. “But inside, I was afraid I was about to pass out, throw up, or both. Do you know what helped me get through that and pilot that huge, crazy ship?”

They blink at him, expectant. Someone in the back mumbles, “He’s going to say the simulations.”

Lance points at him. “I’m going to ignore the sarcasm, because you’re right. I remembered the simulation—the one I’d botched the day before, and all the others I’d ever done. I remembered the feedback I’d gotten about them, which was helpful—even when Iverson was handing me my ass on a plate.” A few more chuckles. Iverson is widely known and equally feared, even among the younger crowd. “Calm down. Take a deep breath. Don’t do anything impulsive. Think ahead. And most importantly, the lesson that took me through all those years up there,” he points vaguely at the ceiling, “ _Trust your team_. Work with them. That’s why simulations are important. Now, maybe that doesn’t make them suck any less, but they exist for a reason, okay?”

A few of the cadets nod eagerly. He knows how to sweeten the deal further, though. Taking a leaf out of Iverson’s book, he holds up a hand. “ _And_ ,” he says, “providing we have satisfactory progress throughout the semester, you _will_ get to fly a real craft at the end of this class. Not a lion, and not into space, but that’ll be your first real flying experience. But in order to qualify for that, you have to participate and pass these simulations this semester. Sound like a good deal?”

There’s a chorus of assent and nodding heads. Lance grins. That wasn’t too hard.

“Okay,” he says, clapping his hands, thinking of himself and Hunk and Pidge and Keith sitting through this exact lecture nearly seven years ago, when they never could have guessed what was to come, “so first of all, who can tell me what three positions make up the average flight crew?”

* * *

Luis and Lisa and the kids live in Havana full time now, which means Lance only sees them on the weekends if they decide to come over. Those weekends, he makes sure he’s back at home no matter how busy things are at the Garrison, just so he can take Nadia and Silvio to the beach. He missed enough of them growing up (coming back home and seeing them walking, talking, had been one of the most unsettling things about the whole experience), he’s not going to miss a second more. It’s become the tradition—first, they go to the store and buy snacks, then they set up camp with some beach towels and an umbrella. Lance tries to teach Nadia how to surf. Silvio collects seashells for his already massive collection—he wants to be a marine biologist. They stay all day. Halfway through, the hottest part of the day, he buys them paletas.

They’re the best days of Lance’s life, these days. Something to look forward to. Now, it’s the rainy season again and they make their way down to the beach despite the threatening rainclouds. Nadia swings off his arm into the surf and out of it and he has to plant his feet deep in the wet sand to remain upright. In front of them, Sylvio screams as he runs headlong into a wave. On her next swing, Lance catapults Nadia into the ocean and laughs as she comes up, sputtering and shrieking. She chases him along the waves for a moment before he lets her catch him, bearing him to the ground and climbing on top of him, dripping and laughing. He’s laughing too, a lightness in his chest, a feeling that creeps up on him more and more often these days, always catching him by surprise. 

“I missed you,” she tells him later as they sit on the beach towels and dry out, or try to. The humidity and cloudy weather keeps them damp and Lance’s skin prickles with goosebumps when the breeze rises off the water. 

He tugs her to him and ruffles her hair. “I missed you, too. But I’ve been back for awhile now, and I’m not going anywhere.”

“No,” she says. “You were different. I missed you laughing. You didn’t smile for so long.”

He falls silent, staring at the waves as she snuggles into his side. He thinks about those first months back, the screaming nightmares, the sleepless nights, the isolation, the anger thrumming through him every day. He didn’t laugh. He didn’t smile. He barely talked. He’d come back to his family almost a stranger. He remembers thinking at the beginning that he’d never go back to who he was before. The joking, the self confidence, the carefree attitude all seemed so false, just a facade built up to hide everything rolling beneath. He hasn’t felt fully alive, though, either, not this whole time at home. Not in Altea, trying desperately to pretend he was okay. Not for a long time. 

Does he feel alive now? Are his days finally emerging from that grey fog he was trapped in for so long? He wakes in the morning and just gets out of bed now, doesn’t lay there trying to gather the strength he needs to make it through the day. He sleeps through the night more often than not, so he can move through the day awake and alive instead of as a zombie. He jokes with his family at mealtimes, charms the old ladies at the market with winks and compliments, builds up rapports with the kids in his classes. He flies back and forth between the Garrison and home nearly once a week and he almost never feels those tickles of panic lighting up in his stomach anymore.

He barely remembers those early trips to the beach with Nadia and Sylvio. He knows they came, knows they played in the water, knows he bought them ice cream. What was he acting like, though? Did he ever crack a smile, laugh, tease them? Or was he as stony and emotionless as he felt? He wonders if he scared them.

“I’m sorry, Nadia,” he murmurs. 

“It’s okay,” she tells him. “I’m just glad you’re back now.”

* * *

He gets a call from Keith one night, after he’s finished dinner with Pidge and Matt and retired to his own small quarters. He hasn’t been talking as much with Keith lately; they’re both busy and there’s a lingering awkwardness that colors their interactions ever since the time at the Garrison in January that Lance still can’t figure out. It’s all on Keith’s end. He’s pretty sure.

Regardless, Lance is always the one to initiate contact, so when Keith’s name lights up on his communicator he stares at it for a moment before fumbling to answer.

“Uh…hey, Keith?” 

“Lance. When was the last time you were away from the Garrison?”

“Hello to you, too. Uh…two weeks ago? It’s midterms, so I—“

“Did you notice anything weird?”

“Weird like what?” 

“Weird like…weird people. Aliens you haven’t seen around before. Any Galra presence.”

Lance wracks his brain, trying to think. He’d barely spent any time at home the last time he went, so swamped with Garrison work he’d only spent a few nights and helped out at the market. “Not that I remember. I wasn’t out much, though. Uh, I could ask my dad? He knows everyone in town, he’d notice if new people had showed up. What’s this about, though?”

Keith sighs, long and deep, through his nose. “I’ll be at the Garrison next week, I can explain then. There are meetings. Lots of unrest in a lot of places. There’s a significant Galra threat that rebels and other Galra—mercenaries, pirates, you know—seem to be rallying around. We think it might be Ranveig.” 

“Ranveig? He was one of the guys vying for the throne during the Kral Zera, right? I thought he was dead.”

“So did we. But we don’t really have tabs on most of the Galra from the Kral Zera. It was assumed most died, some deaths were confirmed. It was such chaos, though, it was hard to keep track. Anyway, we don’t know for sure. Just…be careful, okay? Keep an eye out."

“What do they— I mean, why were you asking about things at home? Should I be—“

“Don’t worry,” Keith interrupts him. “There’s some concern over an attack on Earth, but I think it’s highly unlikely. That’s what the meetings are for, anyway. Next week. I’ll see you then.”

“Wait, but I—“

Keith hangs up.

“Typical,” Lance mutters, staring down at his communicator, and then he sets out to find Shiro. If Keith won’t explain things to him, he can probably bully Shiro into giving up what he knows.

Turns out, Shiro doesn’t know anything either. “The Blades are worried,” he tells Lance, drooping over a bowl of soup in the mess hall the next day, looking exhausted. “They’ve had some meetings with other Alliance members, Keith’s worried Earth’s in danger.”

“He told me not to worry about it,” Lance says, pushing his own half-eaten lunch away, queasiness curling in his stomach.  


Shiro nods. “He told me that, too. I don’t know what to think. If they’re right, and a general as powerful as Ranveig is alive after all, that could throw the whole balance of peace off. Right now, the rebels and remaining Empire loyalists are spread out and disorganized, the most they’ve managed are small attacks, guerrilla-style. But if they have someone to rally around, someone to organize them…” He trails off, spoon stirring aimlessly through soup he doesn’t seem likely to eat. “I don’t think we should worry yet,” he clarifies, shaking himself a bit and looking back at Lance with a smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. “The questions will be answered at the meetings.”

Meetings that, of course, Lance isn’t invited to attend, because he’s an instructor now and not a diplomat. He learns this when he mentions trying to go to the meetings between classes and Keith says, in typical Keith fashion—“Oh. You’re not invited to them.” He must register the hurt in Lance’s eyes, because he backtracks pretty quickly. “I mean, uh, you could probably ask and they probably wouldn't mind, but you don’t have to be there. We’re just meeting with the Admirals. I don’t think Shiro’s even going.”

Lance privately thinks that there’s no way Shiro would miss it, but he doesn’t say that, just shrugs it off. “I mean, they’re bound to be boring, right? I don’t really want to go. I just want you to tell me everything that happens, that way it’ll be only half as boring as sitting through the actual meetings.”

Keith smiles at him. “I’ll try to make it even less boring than that.”

At least things seem normal between them again. Lance had worked himself practically to a nervous breakdown the day before Keith was due to show up and Pidge had to talk him down, which was embarrassing and maybe gave her too much of an idea of Lance’s sudden, painful infatuation with Keith. She’d kept her mouth shut and refrained from teasing him, much to his relief, but he’s positive she and Hunk, and probably Matt, are all talking about him behind his back. When Keith showed up, though, he’d pulled Lance into a quick, tight hug and spent most of the afternoon with him in the mess hall, catching up as he wolfed down a truly impressive amount of food. “Haven’t been eating much,” he explains halfway through his third plate. “It’s been kind of crazy out there.”

So, he might have to worry about aliens invading Earth for the second time, but at least he’s not driving himself crazy wondering what’s wrong with Keith now. He finds he’s a lot less preoccupied with the alien invasion.

The night before the meetings start, a large delegation of allies arrive. Coran is among them, as are some Olkari and Balmerans, including Shay. Some other species Lance doesn’t even recognize are there, too, and Keith tries to name each one as they file into the mess hall for the evening meal. 

“That’s Lord Prima—from Troia—he’s a major ally in that sector, which is important because there’s a lot of Galran activity out there. Mostly pirates, but possibly some more powerful warlords hanging around. And that’s the Olgara, they’re kind of strange—they’re individuals but they have a weird hive mind thing going on, they always speak all together, it’s pretty creepy. And that’s Mula,” he points at a tall, willowy alien with long metallic hair and golden skin. Lance vaguely recognizes him. “He’s the head Laurentian diplomat, total pain in the ass. They’re barely cooperating with the alliance now, but they keep getting attacked by rebels and Galra so they’ve kind of been forced into these strategy meetings. It’s difficult because they won’t let anyone of Galran heritage even near their planet, which means the Blade can’t really work with them.”

“Oh, I remember him. He spoke at the six month celebration, didn’t he?”

Keith nods. “Yeah, I think so. He’s really…” he trails off, shaking his head. “I don't really trust him. I think he just has his planet’s best interests in mind, but I don’t doubt he’d betray the entire alliance if he felt like it was best for Laurent. Not exactly the ally you want.”

“I guess not,” Lance shrugs. “Caring for your people is important, too.”

“So’s working together.”

“My boys!” Coran appears behind them and wraps his arms around their shoulders, squeezing them tightly enough that their heads knock together. Wincing, Lance reaches up and pats his head. “Hi, Coran.”

The rest of the conversation is cut short by Coran babbling about nuffkin hunting season on New Altea, a diatribe that lasts long past dinnertime until they can finally beg off and head to their own—still separate—rooms.

The next day of classes are excruciating. Lance is half daydreaming, zoning out while watching the third group fumble through the simulation, wondering if Keith will be around at lunch so he can pester him for details about the meeting, when a distant _boom_ shakes the room. Several of the kids look up in alarm and Lance slides from his position leaned up against the wall, almost falling over.

“What was that?” Lucy—rail-thin, glasses, levelheaded—asks quietly. Lance holds up a hand to quiet the alarmed chatter and cocks his head, trying to listen. “Might just be a ship taking off or landing—“ he starts to say when a much larger, much closer blast shakes the room again. Several kids fall down, clutching each other, Lance stumbles against the wall, and the windows along the front of the room blow out, letting in a rush of heat and peppering Lance’s face and arm with tiny abrasions. 

“Shit,” Lance says, and sprints over to the simulator. He slams his palm on the _STOP_ button and runs in, ending the simulation as the three kids stare at him. “Aww, c’mon Prof,” Aidan, the pilot, whines. “We were getting attacked! I wanted to fight them off!”

“That wasn’t the simulation!” Lance says, grabbing the engineer out of her seat. “Get to the back of the simulator! Go!” He runs back out to where twenty scared kids are blinking at him like he has answers. “Everyone! Get away from the door!” He starts beckoning them, shoving them into the simulator behind him. The simulator is made of stronger steel than the rest of the room, if he can get everyone in there, get the door shut, maybe…. “Get into the simulator! I think—“

Too late. Another blast rocks the room and it explodes—door blowing in, glass shattering, ceiling falling. Lance throws himself in front of the rest of the kids, bodily pushing as many back as he can, hoping most of them can at least get into the shelter of the doorway, heat and rubble washing over him. The kids are screaming, someone’s crying, the world’s caving in. And then it stops, the creak of broken metal and coughing and quiet whimpers the only sounds left. His ears are ringing, his entire body aching, he can feel the tell-tale trickle of blood down the side of his face from a sharp pain on his head. He groans. Thinks about how it would be kind of nice to just lay here awhile, maybe take a nap….

“Professor McClain?” Someone whispers from behind him.

The kids. He can’t—he has to figure out what’s going on. He has to keep them safe.

It takes a tremendous effort to lift his head, to lever himself up on his elbows and look. Once he does, the view is nearly obscured by the dust and debris in the air. His eyes burn. He squints. It’s not as bad as he thought. The entire room hasn’t collapsed, but the front of it is blown in, a pile of rubble and glass. Their way out is impossibly blocked. It smells like smoke.

He turns. The kids look back at him, covered in dust and dirt, wide-eyed. Malcolm clutches a clearly broken arm to his chest. Nadja bleeds from a gash at her hairline. Elliot’s lying still, curled up, face pale, eyes closed.

“Sound off,” Lance croaks, remembering floating through endless space, anchored only by the feeling of the others against his back. “If you can hear my voice, say your name. And if you’re hurt.”

Nadja blinks slowly at him, then says “Nadja. I think I’m okay. Head wounds bleed a lot, right?”

“Right,” Lance reassures her, though she almost certainly has a concussion. “Everyone else?”

“Malcolm. I hurt my arm.”

“Lucy. I’m okay.”

“Ahmet. My ribs hurt.”

“Nico. I’m okay. El’s here, he’s unconscious.”

“Is he breathing?” Lance asks, because he can’t tell from here.

“I think so?” A few quick breaths. Nico sounds like he’s hyperventilating as he scoots into Lance’s line of sight to take Elliot’s pulse. “Um—yeah? Oh my god, what happened? Are you okay, Professor?”

“Yes,” Lance lies, because if he’s being honest his leg _really_ hurts, which is why he hasn’t gotten up and started checking on everyone himself. He doesn’t need to freak all them out by saying that, though. “I’m not sure what happened. Let’s keep sounding off, though, okay? We’ll go from there. Who else is there? Mel, I can see you, and I can see Kate next to you. Is Brigid behind you?” Those three are never far from each other.

“I’m here,” Brigid’s timid voice pipes up from the dusty darkness. “I’m okay. Sam’s here, too. I think they hit their head.”

“Jason,” someone says from the back. 

“Kai. I’m bleeding from somewhere. I can’t tell where.” His breath hitches. “It hurts.”

“Marya.” 

“Enofe,”

“Jandro.”

“Carmen. It hurts to breathe. I think my ribs are broken. And it’s so dark…”

“Aidan. I—I’m stuck in the pilot’s seat. Can’t move my legs.”

“Sofia. I’m next to someone, I think they’re unconscious. I can’t tell who they are, it’s too dark.”

Silence. 

“Anyone else?” Lance tries. If that’s it, he’s missing five people who are either trapped in the rubble, unconscious, or otherwise unable to answer. He won’t think _dead_. 

A sniffle from the back, and someone’s crying. 

“Oh, god,” Lucy says. “The door’s collapsed. There’s no way out.”

Murmurs from behind, from the kids who can’t see. 

“We’ll find a way out,” Lance says. “And if we can’t, someone will come find us.” He tries to sound confident. He tries to forgot the other two blasts from before this. What if everyone else is trapped like they are? Or worse, blown up? He grimaces, levers himself into a sitting position, leg screaming. He manages to pull it in front of him. It’s bent at an awkward angle, but not bloody. Hopefully not too badly injured, then.

Something slams in the hallway. A loud scraping sound, and then a voice, muffled. “Clear this out of the way. There were people over there. One of them.” A strange accent, lilting. Lance recognizes it from somewhere, but where…?

Behind him, Nadja perks up. “People!” she says, and then screams, “In here! Help, help us! We’re in here!”

Lance grabs her and pulls her to him covering her mouth with his hand. “Shhh!” He whispers. “Everyone be quiet! We don’t know who that is!” Because the voice, whatever it was, didn’t really sound human.

“—you hear that?” Another voice echoes, rasping.

“Still alive. We can use them.”

Under his hand, Nadja gasps.

“Blow it out of the way—“

“Duck!” Lance yells, and throws himself on top of Nadja, covering his head with his arms. Another, smaller explosion sends glass and shards of metal blowing over them, and when the dust clears, the space where the door used to be is open, leading out into the hallway where small fires burn. It’s blocked by someone, who’s walking towards them holding what looks like a laser gun.

Lance’s head feels fuzzy. He tries to blink the haziness from his eyes, but it stays, stubborn. He can barely see through the dust. His eyes ache.

“Well, well, well,” the figure says, stopping above him and training the gun directly at his forehead. “If it isn’t the Red Paladin. Lucky us.”

It’s tall, certainly not human, and wearing all black. A dark hood swept up over its head, a mask covering the lower half of its face. Narrow green eyes, a slit for pupils. 

“We can use you,” the alien is saying. “But them?” he gestures with the gun at the terrified students gathered behind Lance. “Alliance-trained scum, training to build another Empire. We can get rid of them.”

“No,” Lance says, and drags himself to his feet, clutching the wall of the simulator for support. He’s desperate, trying to think of how to get the gun away from the intruder, because if he just had a weapon…he’s so out of practice, though and his head is swimming, and his leg will buckle under his weight the second he takes a step forward —

The alien laughs. “Strong words for someone weak and wounded. You’re not even a fighter anymore, are you? I’d heard you were living on some farm somewhere, doing menial labor. Still, the others are attached to you, especially the Blade Commander and the Queen. You’d be useful collateral, but if you want to die today, I’m happy to oblige.” 

“Shut up,” Lance snarls, and lunges forward as the alien raises the gun. His leg gives out, of course, but it’s enough to send the alien stumbling back, the shot going wide. A kid screams behind him and the alien yells something in a guttural language, spinning around to train the gun on Lance again, reptilian eyes narrowed. There’s no way he’ll miss.

And then, something comes down on his head. A metal pipe. He looks surprised for a moment, eyes going wide, and then crumples to the ground. Behind him, Liam, the boy who reminds him of Keith, lowers the pipe and grins, face streaked with dust and blood.

“Alright, Professor?”

Lance lets out a long breath. “Thanks, Liam—“

Before the words are halfway out of his mouth, Liam lurches forward, drops the pipe, and hits the ground, hands clasped to his chest. Behind him, two more figures walk towards them. One has a gun pointed right where Liam was standing. Lance stares in shock, first at them, then at Liam. He’s unmoving, a trickle of blood falling from his mouth. 

“Just kill them all,” the taller figure says in that lilting voice. They’re both dressed in the same dark clothing as the first, masks hiding their features. “It’s not worth it. It will send a message.”

“Right,” the other replies, and raises their own gun.

Lance lunges forward and closes his hand around the gun still clutched in the hand of the first alien. He rolls away from the other alien’s first shot, yelling “Get back!” at the kids behind him. He shoots once, twice, missing by inches as the aliens realize he has a weapon and draw back. Now they’re both aiming at him. Something clicks—he remembers how to move, now, remembers hours on the training deck, remembers perching up on rafters and in windows for the best shot, bracing himself on one knee and shooting from closer range when he was stuck in a situation like this, when he didn’t have the higher ground. He still can’t see right, but their silhouettes are backlit by the light from the hallway, and that’s enough. He rolls again, kicks a piece of rubble towards the two of them with his good leg _hard_ , so they have to dodge it, and braces himself on one knee even though it feels like the lower half of his leg is going to fall off. One of the aliens is distracted, stumbling over the chunk of metal Lance kicked in their direction, and he has an opening. He takes the shot. The other alien, the tall one, takes one at the same time and Lance _feels_ it, feels it’s trajectory, is already moving to roll out of the way. It grazes his cheek, the side of his head. He can feel the burn it leaves behind. 

The short alien screams and drops. The other keeps advancing, already shooting again. He expected that. These guys seem determined—probably not going to get distracted by their compatriots getting injured, not if their lack of reaction to the death of the first one is anything to go by. So he kept moving, rolling behind a large piece of what looks like the ceiling, and the alien’s shot ricochets off it. A shout of frustration. He grins to himself, flooded with adrenaline. He might not be a fighter anymore, but he remembers how to fight.

He peeks out, ducks back as a shot grazes his ear. Several shots hit the metal again, and then they’re flying past him. Another student screams and Lance grits his teeth. The alien’s advancing, shooting at the kids to draw Lance out. He catches a quick glimpse of the alien’s position and throws himself out into the open, shooting as he goes. He catches the alien in the shoulder. Then, as the alien doubles over in pain, in the head. A clean shot. The alien crumbles, hood falling back. Long, metallic hair, stained with golden blood.

That lilting accent. He’s Laurentian.

Not just any Laurentian. The Laurentian that arrived with the delegation for the meetings. Lance remembers Keith, leaned close, pointing him out.

Something whispers in the back of Lance’s mind, the glitter of a blade, a lilting voice mocking him….

A commotion towards the doorway. Figures approaching. Lance lifts the gun and shoots, three shots in quick succession. Someone falls back with a shout of pain.

“Stop! Don’t shoot!” Another figure drops what looks like a gun and lifts their hands. “McClain? Is that you?”

Then, louder, a scream—“Lance?” Someone skids around the corner and rushes into the room. Lance raises the gun, trains it on them with shaking hands. He can’t see anything, can’t see anyone, and this person wears dark clothing and carries a weapon, a long blade.

Keith pulls to a stop in front of him and falls to his knees. He’s panting, eyes wild and tinged with yellow, absolutely covered in blood, though none of it seems to be his own. “Lance?”

He laughs and drops the gun. It clatters on the floor, deafening in the sudden silence. “Who did I shoot?” he asks.

Keith doesn’t smile, per-se, but the corner of his mouth twitches. “Iverson,” he answers quietly. “Just grazed him.”

Lance laughs again. “Karma,” he mutters, and then he’s falling forward. He doesn’t even remember hitting the ground.

* * *

He wakes. It’s quiet. He’s comfortable, but the fuzzy sort of comfortable, the kind he’s come to associate with painkillers and illness. It smells like the Garrison med bay, a very specific cocktail of antiseptic, plastic, and the cherry candies the nurse likes to give out.

Why would he be in the med bay?

He opens his eyes. Everything is blurry, dim. He blinks a few times, trying to clear his vision. It doesn’t work.

Something touches his shoulder. A hand, soft. “Leandro?”

He squints in the direction of the voice. A blurry figure hovers over him. “Veronica?”

“ _Sí, hermanito. Cómo estás?”_

He tries to find an answer. “ _No sé. ¿Por que no puedo ver?”_

A slight intake of breath. “You had a lot of glass in your eyes. They’re still healing. Does it hurt?”

Now that he’s more aware, it does. He winces, shifting in the bed, and a bolt of pain shoots down his leg. “ _Sí_ ,” he gasps. “ _Mi pierna.”_

“I’ll get you more pain medication,” she says. “Try to go back to sleep. You shouldn’t have woken up this early.”

A cool sensation trickles from the crook of his elbow up his arm. Almost immediately, his body feels fuzzy and numb again, the pain in his leg fading. His eyes fall shut. Sleep. Sounds good.

* * *

When he wakes again, he can see better. It’s brighter, blue sky and sun outside the tiny window, more noise—the distant chatter of voices, squeaking footsteps, someone laughing nearby. He turns his head.

Veronica is gone, but in her place Keith curls in the chair, knees drawn up to his chest, head pillowed on top of them. He’s sleeping, face slack and lips parted. Lance thinks about reaching over and waking him, but his limbs feel wooden and talking seems like a lot of work, so he closes his eyes instead and listens to the sound of Keith’s even breathing until he falls asleep himself.

* * *

The next time he wakes, it hurts more, but his head feels a lot clearer, free of the uncomfortable haze of painkillers. He blinks his eyes open and recoils. Pidge is staring at him, from about six inches away.

“Did you know you always scrunch your nose up when you’re about to wake up? Like you’re trying not to sneeze. It’s cute.”

“How often do you watch me sleep?” he groans, body protesting at the sudden movement. “That’s creepy.”

She shrugs and sits back in her chair, picking up her tablet. He licks his lips and takes stock of his body, All major limbs accounted for, all ten fingers and toes. His leg still hurts a bit, but considering he got blown up—

Wait. He got _blown up_.

“What the _fuck_ happened?” he asks loudly, and Pidge jumps slightly, before settling down and glaring at him cooly.

“You got blown up. Again.”

“By _who_?”

“By the rebels.” He whips his head around. Keith’s sitting on his other side, leaning forward, forearms resting on the bed by Lance’s hip. He looks exhausted, dark circles under his eyes, paler than usual. He’s wearing his Blade uniform and his hair is pulled back in a bun that’s falling out, dark strands of hair straggling into his eyes. “Galra led, we think. We captured a few, but some escaped.”

“The Laurentian,” Lance says. “The Laurentian who came for the meetings, he was there, I killed him.”

Keith nods. “Mula. That’s how they infiltrated.” He rubs his eyes. “They’re getting smarter. I knew I couldn’t trust him. ”

“I heard two other explosions,” Lance says. “Who else—“ Then he remembers, sits up, and falls back onto the bed, gasping with pain. Keith’s out of his seat in an instant, hovering over him, hand on his shoulder pressing him down into the pillows.

“I wouldn’t move just yet,” Pidge says unnecessarily.  


“Fuck, why doesn’t Earth having healing pods yet?” he groans.

“We’re working on it,” Pidge says. “As it is, your major injuries have mostly healed in less than three days, so I wouldn’t complain too much.”

“Elliot,” he says. “Nadja, Liam—the kids, are my kids okay?”

Pidge’s mouth presses into a thin line. Keith sinks back into his seat and won’t meet his eyes.

“The kids,” Lance says, more forcefully. “Tell me what happened.”

“You saved a lot of people,” Keith says. “Fighting them when you were hurt like that, it saved their lives.”

“Liam’s dead,” Lance says bluntly, because he knows that, he saw the unnatural stillness of his body, the blood tricking from his mouth. “Who else? Tell me.”

Pidge clears her throat. “We think Natalie and David were nearest the door in the initial explosion. They were caught in the rubble. Siri had massive internal bleeding. Jason was shot by one of the intruders. Elliot has severe head trauma, but he’s holding on. They’re doing the best they can.”

His breath catches in his chest. “Everyone else?”

“Is fine,” Pidge says. “Banged up, freaked out, but fine.”

He covers his face with shaking hands. “Five. Five of them.”

“It would have been all of them without you there.”

“I’m supposed to protect them,” he says, breath hitching. “I’m supposed to protect them all. I’m not—this isn’t—this—this isn’t supposed to happen!”

“Lance,” Pidge says, but it’s too late, he’s curled on his side, hands over his face, and he can’t breathe, can’t move, it’s too much, people _died_ , died because he didn’t act quickly enough, died to save his life. Liam. Jason, while he was hiding behind that chunk of ceiling, waiting to make a shot like a coward. Natalie and David, who he didn’t get to quickly enough when he jumped in front of the rest of them. Siri, who he couldn’t move to help after it happened.

The bed settles beside his head and hands pull him towards a warm body, a soothing touch on his neck, grounding him. “Breathe,” Keith orders with his usual bluntness, like it’s easy. He drags his hands away from his face and holds his wrists in a firm grip. “ _Breathe_ , Lance.” 

He tries. Hitching and painful at first, evening out eventually. He has to focus on the concrete—Keith’s hand on his neck, the itch of starched sheets on his skin, Pidge’s steady voice. 

When he calms down enough to speak, all he can say is “I want to go home.”

“You can,” Pidge says. “As soon as you’re recovered enough. They ended the semester early. Parents are furious.”

_No shit,_ he wants to say. Kids died. _Kids_. The Garrison is supposed to be safe, one of the safest spots on Earth. It was the only place that resisted the Galra. This attack will put a massive stain on that reputation. They deserve it. They opened the door to the people who did this, welcomed them in. _Stupid_.

Keith’s hand twitches on the nape of his neck, fingers rubbing small, soothing circles. “I’ll take you home,” he says. “On my way out, in a few days.”

He’s too tired, too shattered to respond, so he just nods, and lets himself sleep.

* * *

He goes home empty. Keith brings him, delivers him into his mother’s arms, and melts away before Lance can even say goodbye. He’d be back sometime over the summer, he’d said, but he wasn’t sure when. Lance wonders if this is how things will always be—Keith leaving, him left behind, always waiting for him to come back for fleeting, insufficient visits. His stomach turns at the thought. He hates being left behind. He’s tired of this.

He works. He doesn’t talk much, doesn’t smile much. He’s having nightmares again, of explosions and dead kids and long silver hair. He talks to his therapist at the Garrison once a week. She’s worried about him, he can tell. She wants him to come back to the Garrison, live there over the summer. He can’t. Can’t even think about leaving home.

He’s right back where he started, like nothing ever changed, save for the new scar along his hairline and slightly different nightmare fuel. Nightmares and shivering panic attacks in the kitchen. The empty numbness filling his chest cavity. He’s being shitty about communication again. He knows the others are worried, but he doesn't want to hear the news from the Garrison, doesn't want to know about the information they've gathered from the rebels they captured, doesn't care about Laurent's excuses for their ambassador. 

When Shiro calls him asking if he’ll come back and teach in the fall, he thinks he’s going to say no. He was sort of planning on saying no. Maybe it’s his instincts, buried deep but protecting him, that push a “Yes” out of his mouth. Shiro sounds relieved. Lance hangs up the phone unsure of how to feel. 

“It’s good,” his mother says, sitting across from him in the kitchen, plying him with herbal tea. “You need to carry on. You can’t stop living the life you’ve built.”

“I know,” he mumbles into his tea.

She reaches across the table, tilts his chin up with the tips of her fingers, forces him to look in her eye.

“I’m proud of you.”

He laughs wetly. “I don’t know if I’m someone you should be proud of.” The people he’s killed. The people he’s failed to save.

She smiles at him sadly and gets up from the table to put her mug in the sink. “Luckily, I get to make that decision for myself, _mijo_.” She squeezes his shoulder and kisses the top of his head as she leaves the kitchen, like she did when he was a child. He closes his eyes and pretends he’s eight years old, upset about schoolyard bullies, about not making the fútbol team. _McClains don’t give up easy_ , his dad would say, patting him on the back, and his mother would kiss him on the top of the head and the next day he’d go back, he'd try again. Maybe he’d make the team. Maybe he wouldn’t. He’s never been one to stop trying, though.

* * *

Keith plans to come in late August, right before Lance needs to be back at the Garrison. He even tells him the day he should be there, a rare specificity for Keith, so it’s not much of a surprise when the transport pod lands in the lower field, though he’d expected him to fly into town and walk over as he had in the past. What’s surprising—or maybe just alarming—is Keith stumbling out of the pod, still in full Blade uniform, walking five steps to Lance, and collapsing against him.

He catches him, barely. His breathing is quick and he can feel him struggling to get his feet back under him.

“What the hell, Keith?” he asks, running his hands up and down Keith’s sides, looking for a wound, for blood, for something to explain his weakness. “What’s wrong?”

“Tired,” Keith slurs against his neck. He brings his head back to meet Lance’s eyes for a moment before letting it fall back. “Haven’t slept. Long mission.”

“Jesus Christ,” Lance says, tucking an arm around his waist and slowly helping him towards the house. “Are you hurt?”

Keith shakes his head. “Just a few bruises. Just…need to sleep.” He shakes his head and takes a deep breath, visibly steeling himself, and straightens up, becoming less of a dead weight. “Sorry. Shouldn’t have come here first. Just wanted to see you.”

“Yeah, well, good to see you too.” He drags him through the backdoor and the kitchen, ignoring his mother’s concerned questions as she follows them to the living room, where he deposits Keith on the couch. His mother crowds in close and rests the back of her hand against Keith’s forehead.“ _¿Que pasa?”_

_“Está cansado_ ,” Lance says, trying to sound reassuring. “ _No está enfermo_.” He hopes. In truth, Keith does look ill, pale and drooping in the bright midday light.

His mother pulls her hand away from Keith’s forehead and points down at his leg. “ _Mira_.” There’s a wet spot along the side of Keith’s thigh, and when Lance puts a hand to it his fingers come away red.

“Dammit, Keith,” he growls, sounding more angry than he means to. “What happened?”

“Hmmm?” Keith asks, voice muzzy with sleep. “Oh…ah, forgot about that. Just a scratch.”

“You’d call getting disemboweled _just a scratch_ ,” Lance grumbles, though the amount of blood on his hands isn't enough to really worry him. “Take off your suit.”

“I’ll get you some other clothes,” his mother says in English, patting Keith on the shoulder. Keith groans and tries to sit up straighter. “It’s really just a scratch, I promise. Can’t it wait?”

“No,” Lance says, and starts tugging at the Blade suit, trying to find the fasteners to take it off. Keith smiles at him, hazy, and mumbles, “You trying to get into my pants?”, which is when Lance really realizes how out of it he is.

“Oh my god,” he says, and he can feel himself blushing. No cover of darkness to hide it this time. “Just—how the hell does this thing come off?”

Keith reaches up to his neck and presses something, and the suit blinks out of existence, leaving Keith in nothing but underwear and a thin purple collar around his neck. Lance yelps at the sudden, mostly-naked body in front of him, then tries to save face by croaking, “That’s handy.”

Keith smirks at him, then winces as he shifts around. Lance refocuses his attention on his leg, desperately willing himself not to pay attention to anything else. It’s difficult. The long scar from the attack in the winter stands out stark in the bright room, and Keith has other scars, ones Lance doesn’t remember, littering his body. He wants to ask, to touch every last one of them, but now isn’t the time, not with Keith hurting and practically falling asleep in front of him.

“Let me grab the first aid kit,” he says. “Hang tight. Don’t fall asleep yet.”

Keith nods, but his eyes are hazy. When Lance walks back in the room, his head is tilted back, resting on the back of the couch, his eyes are closed, his hands are slack. Lance touches his shoulder and he jerks back to wakefulness. 

“Sorry,” he mutters. Lance just shakes his head and kneels to look at his leg. It’s clearly a wound from a blaster, more a burn than a cut. He hasn’t lost much blood; blaster wounds have a tendency to cauterize themselves; but it looks painful. Keith barely reacts as he wipes it clean and daubs on antiseptic. 

“Another attack?”

Keith shakes his head. “Just an altercation with locals.”

“With people you were helping?”

Keith lifts one shoulder in a shrug. “Not everyone likes that we’re Galran.”

Lance sputters, presses a little on the wound. Keith stiffens and winces. “B-but—you’re the ones who have been fighting the Galra the longest! The Blade’s been around for almost as long as the empire! How can anyone argue against that?”

“We’re Galran. That’s all some people need. Too much—” He winces again, shifts slightly. “Too much history. They can’t forget. _Ouch.”_ Lance murmurs an apology and goes back to slathering on antibacterial cream. He then allows himself one long, slow, glance across Keith’s body to make sure there aren’t any other wounds. Just to make sure he’s alright, nothing more.

Nothing more.

Lance’s mom brings in an old t-shirt and a pair of sweatpants, as well as a glass of water and some painkillers. She sets them down on the coffee table and puts her hand on Keith’s shoulder. “You’re welcome to stay as long as you like, Keith. Get some rest. Dinner’s not for another few hours.”

Keith smiles at her and nods his thanks, and Lance stops himself from saying he doesn’t think Keith is going to wake up any time soon, let alone in time for dinner. 

“Lift up your leg,” he tells him, tugging at it until Keith props his foot on the coffee table, wincing. Lance sticks an antibacterial healing pad over the wound and winds a bandage around Keith’s thigh to keep it in place, desperately trying not to think about how close his hands are to…other parts. When he finishes, he hands Keith the clothes. Keith pulls on the t-shirt but waves away the pants. Lance doesn’t push him, though it would be nice for his own concentration if Keith would just put them on.

Keith leans forward and grabs the water off the table, takes a long sip and sighs, leaning back. Lance shoves everything back into the first aid kit and throws it back onto the coffee table, sinking onto the couch next to Keith. “So,” he says. “Does that happen a lot?”

Keith swallows another sip and rolls his head to look at him. “Does what happen?”

Lance gestures to his leg. “ _Altercations with locals_. The people you’re helping attacking you. Fighting when you’re not supposed to have to fight.”

Keith sighs. “I don’t know, Lance. It happens, okay?.”

“I thought the war was supposed to be over.”

“The war _is_ over,” he says, gulping down the rest of his water. Lance looks at him out of the corner of his eye, his sloped shoulders, the tired lines of his face. “Not for you,” Lance says. “You never stopped fighting.”

Keith looks at him, eyes dark and tired. His hair’s greasy, hanging in strings around his face, he smells like he hasn’t showered in days, and he probably hasn’t, there’s dirt smudged on his cheekbones, and he’s the most beautiful thing Lance has ever seen. His heart yawns, aching. 

“It’s not the same,” Keith says quietly. 

Lance reaches out and rests his hand over the bandage on Keith’s leg. “You’re fighting,” he says. “You save people. You kill people. People fight you. You get hurt. It’s the same.”

Keith closes his eyes at Lance’s touch and doesn’t open them again, leaning his head back to rest on the couch cushions. He sighs, and Lance feels his muscles relax under his hand.

“I just,” he murmurs quietly. “I just need to sleep.”

Lance pulls away. “You can have the spare bedroom.”

“No,” Keith mutters, body already going lax. “I’m fine. Here is fine.”

“You’ll wake up stiff,” Lance warns, but Keith’s already out, glass slipping from his fingers. Lance pulls it away before it hits the ground and places it carefully on the coffee table. Keith’s sprawled out uncomfortably, injured leg still up on the coffee table, neck bent at an awkward angle, one arm falling off the couch. He attempts to readjust him, pulling his legs onto the couch, tipping him over until his head rests on the arm rest. Keith mumbles a little, but he’s dead to the world. Lance finds a blanket to cover him with and retreats to the kitchen, sitting down at the table and putting his head in his hands. 

“ _Mijo_ ,” his mother says, ghosting a hand over his shoulder, voice quietly questioning.Lance just groans.

“He’ll be alright,” she says, confident. Lance tries to believe her. She’s dealt with enough scrapes and bruises and accidents between all of them that she should know.

“I’m worried about him,” Lance mumbles. “He works too hard.”

She slides a mug of tea in front of him. “I’m sure he’d say the same about you.”

“It’s different.”

She hums, but doesn’t answer, busying herself at the stove. After a few minutes of clattering pans, she remarks, “You boys care about each other a lot.”

Lance shrugs. “Yeah. I guess.”

She turns, leaning against the stove, arms crossed. “Leandro.”

“Mama.”

She eyes him, and it has the effect it’s always had—like she’s looking right through his skin and bones into the depth of his heart. “You deserve to be happy. You know that, yes? And so does he.”

He can feel the blush creeping up his face. “ _Mama_. I’m—we’re not—what are you saying?”

“I’m not blind, Leandro. I see the way you look at him.”

He sputters. “I’m not _looking_ —“

She holds up a hand to stop his stammering. “Listen to me. I won’t say anything else about it, but he looks back at you. Don’t let your fear of the future or worry for him hold you back, okay?”

Lance doesn’t answer, red-faced and sputtering. 

“You both deserve to be happy,” she repeats, and then she hands him a bucket of kitchen scraps and tells him to get out of the kitchen and feed the chickens instead of mope.

Keith sleeps for twenty six hours and then wakes up, stumbling to the kitchen and holding a hand out to Lance wordlessly until he hands him a glass of water.

“Good morning,” he says wryly as Keith gulps it down. It’s late afternoon, nearly dinner time, light falling long through the kitchen window. It’s Lance’s night to cook and he’s making empanadas, halfway through sealing up the little pastry pockets. He’s got dough on his fingers and flour in his hair and one of his mom’s floral aprons on and he’s surprised to find that he doesn’t care; doesn’t care that Keith is seeing him like this, disheveled and barefoot in the hot kitchen, making food for his family. He refills Keith’s glass and hands it back to him, trying to ignore the way Keith’s eyes follow his movements around the room. 

“Sleep well?” he asks lightly, turning back to the empanadas. Keith grunts from behind him and noisily drinks down the glass before setting it on the table with the slight _thunk_ and sighing.

“Can I help?” he asks eventually, voice rough with sleep. 

Lance wants to tell him to rest, to relax, but he knows how Keith will react to being coddled, so he says “sure,” and brings his bowl of filling and rounds of dough to the kitchen table and sits across from Keith. “Just put a spoonful of filling in each one and crimp it closed. Like this, see?”

Keith nods and proceeds to overfill his first few so badly the pastry cracks when he tries to fold it up. Eventually, Lance bats his hands away. “I’ll fill, you close,” he says, and Keith looks like he’s about to argue, but then nods and accepts the rounds of dough Lance slides his way, folding and crimping them carefully, tongue poking out from between his teeth as he concentrates. It’s adorable. Lance has to look away. 

“Sorry I worried you,” Keith says quietly as Lance hands him the last empanada and stands to bring the bowl to the sink.

“It’s okay,” he says. “I’m glad you’re safe. Glad you got to rest. How’s the leg?”

Keith shrugs, carefully smoothing the edges of dough together and placing it on the plate of finished empanadas. Lance pours oil into a pan and turns the burner on.

“Sorry I slept for so long,” Keith says, even quieter.

“Stop saying you’re sorry,” Lance says. “It’s weird. How long are you staying?”

Keith leans back in his chair, wrapping his arms around himself like he’s cold. He can’t be. It’s August in Cuba, and sweltering. “I don’t know,” he says. “A week, maybe? But I’m on call. If anyone needs me, I have to go.”

Lance picks up the plate and brings it to the stove, dropping a bit of dough into the oil to see if it’s hot enough. It sizzles and bobs around the pan. He drops in the first few empanadas and turns back to Keith, who’s looking at him with a calculating expression.

“How are you?” he asks eventually, just as Lance turns back to fry more empanadas. He bites his lip, wondering what to say. He hasn’t seen Keith in person since he left the Garrison after the attack, and all Keith knows is that he fell off the face of the Earth again when it came to communicating, and then spent a month calling him in tears every time he woke up from terrifying dreams of bombs and dying children. He’s doing better now, but Keith probably doesn’t know that because Lance is still not great at communicating.

“I’m okay,” he says eventually.

“Just okay?” Keith asks.

“Just okay,” he confirms. “It’s not the worst I could be.”

Keith inclines his head in acknowledgement. “No. You’re going back to teach soon?”

“Yeah.” He pulls out the first batch of empanadas, sets them golden-brown and crispy on a towel, pokes his head out the back door to yell that dinner will be ready soon to anyone who can hear him. “Did Shiro tell you?”

Keith nods. “I’m glad. I was worried you wouldn’t…” he trails off, eyes flicking to meet Lance’s gaze, clearly unwilling to finish the sentence for fear of making him angry. Lance makes it easier for him. “I almost didn’t,” he says. “My mom convinced me. And Shiro.” He sighs. “I want to go back. I like it, I really do. But I’m scared.”

Keith nods. “That’s okay.”

Lance snorts, throws in another batch to fry. “It’s stupid.”

“It’s not. I’m scared all the time, Lance.”

Lance opens his mouth to reply, but before he can get any words out Marco and his father bang through the back door and descend on Keith with noisy greetings and slaps on the back. Keith looks vaguely overwhelmed, but smiles through it, and at Lance when he breaks things up by setting the platter of empanadas on the table. He sits close to Keith during dinner, and if their knees brush more than once and eventually stay resting against each other, well, he’s not going to read too much into that.

In the end, Keith only makes it four days before he receives a call that leaves him grim faced, standing in the doorway of the barn where Lance is trying to corral both chickens and young cousins. He takes one look at Keith and knows.

“No,” he shakes his head, stomach falling to his feet. “You said a week.”

“I’m on call,” Keith says softly. “I need to leave. Ranveig's attacked the Oriande sector, near Altea. We still don’t know where he’s operating from. This could be the chance to track him down. I have to.”

Lance just shakes his head again. He doesn’t understand why he’s so filled with dread. Keith leaves all the time. He should be used to it, now.

Keith jerks his head in the direction of the ocean. “Let’s take a walk,” he says. Lance doesn’t trust himself to speak, so he just nods, shooing the kids back towards the house and falling into step next to Keith as they make their way through the orchard to the beach. They stand, staring at the waves crashing violently onto the sand, at the building dark clouds in the distance.

“I’ll come back,” Keith says softly. “As soon as I can.”

“Okay.” Lance says. 

“I’ll probably be at the Garrison soon, anyway. For meetings. There are always so many meetings.”

“Okay,” he says again. His eyes are burning.

“Lance…are you—are you crying?”

“No,” he says angrily, and scrubs furiously at his eyes until all he can see are stars. Keith touches him on the shoulder, almost too light to feel. “I’m sorry.”

“Would you _stop_ apologizing to me? _Dios_ , it’s so weird.”

“Uh—sorry?”

“ _Keith_.” Lance turns to him in exasperation and immediately regrets it, because there’s no way Keith will miss the tears in his eyes now.

“I don’t want to make you sad,” Keith says.

“Who says it’s about you?”

“Lance,” Keith says patiently. “You don’t like it when I leave.”

Lance stares at him, raises a brow like _no shit_. Keith sighs and looks away. “I don’t like leaving, either.”

“Will there ever be a time…when that doesn’t happen anymore?” It’s the nearest he can get to what he really wants to say, which is too terrifying to even think, still. 

Keith looks at him, all big purple eyes and black hair blowing in his face. Lance can’t physically stop himself from reaching up and tucking a lock of it behind his ear. Keith’s eyes widen slightly and Lance tenses, ready to snatch his hand away, make an excuse, run back home. Keith’s hand beats him to it, reaching up to cover his where it rests over his cheek. His fingers are warm.

Keith guides his hand down and squeezes tight, stepping close until their faces are inches apart and Lance can feel his breath ghosting over his lips. If he leaned just a little farther…

“There was always something about you, Lance,” Keith murmurs. “I hope so. Someday.”

They stay there for a moment, frozen inches from each other and then Lance looses his nerve, pulls back, stumbles over something to say. “Come for Christmas,” he eventually blurts. “For actual Christmas, this time. Bring Shiro, and Curtis. Even Krolia. Just come.”

Does he imagine the look of disappointment that flits across Keith’s face? Maybe. Keith’s expression settles itself seconds later into a slight smile. “Christmas,” he repeats.

“Yeah. Come on, you’ll have to have some time off built up by then. Please?”

Keith smiles, full and genuine this time. “Yeah, alright. If you don’t mind. That would be. Nice.”

“My mom will be overjoyed.”

Keith’s eyes crinkle deeply at the corners whenever he laughs. Lance wants to memorize the map of those ephemeral lines, he sees them so rarely. “Anything to make her happy,” he says. “I’ll plan on it.”

Lance nods. “Okay.”

Keith nods back. “Okay.”

He leaves less than an hour later, waving at them all as he takes off in his pod. For days after, weeks even, Lance feels his breath on his face, the ghost of his fingers on his cheeks. Like he’s still there. Like he never left at all.

* * *

**_To: Mullet_ **

_16:43 November 29, 22XX_

**_Lance:_ ** _Hey I know things are super busy but wanted to check in—still thinking about coming around Christmas?_

 

_23:08 November 30, 22XX_

**_Mullet:_ ** _Yes, as long as it’s okay still_

**_Mullet:_ ** _It would be really nice._

**_Mullet:_ ** _We’re going on a pretty extensive mission to Laurent tomorrow to mediate some peace talks with rebels and provide some aid. Ranveig or someone else trying to take the planet cause of it’s strategic spot along supply routes. Guess they’ve finally warmed up to the Blade now that we’ve promised unlimited food and medical supplies. Should be gone close to two movements, maybe longer. Not sure yet. Could be complicated. I’ll plan on coming back to Earth whenever that wraps up. Should definitely be before Christmas though._

 

_06:48 December 1, 22XX_

**_Lance:_ ** _Sounds good_

**_Lance:_ ** _Be careful_

**_Mullet:_ ** _Always am._

 

_01:25 December 14, 22XX_

**_Mullet:_ ** _Should be there the 21st_

**_Mullet:_ ** _Current mission should finish up in a few quintants and I’ll head to Earth after_

**_Mullet:_ ** _You’re sure it’s okay?_

**_Lance:_ ** _Yeah I told you_

**_Lance:_ ** _My mom’s already planned the menu out she can’t wait_

**_Lance:_ ** _They’re doing the whole roast pig again, you really should invite Shiro and Curtis. I already told Shiro but he’s more likely to actually come if you ask. the more people the better to eat that thing_

**_Mullet:_ ** _oh god that sounds so good_

**_Mullet:_ ** _Earth food_

**_Mullet:_ ** _yeah maybe I will_

**_Lance:_ ** _yeeee see you soon_

 

_11:15 December 21, 22XX_

**_Lance:_ ** _ETA?_

 

_17:23 December 21, 22XX_

**_Lance:_ ** _????_

 

_08:53 December 22, 22XX_

**_Lance:_ ** _Dude, you gotta tell me if plans change. Now i’m worried_

**_Lance:_ ** _seriously are you okay? you’re communicator is offline._

**_Lance:_ ** _This is stupid you’re not even getting any of these texts._

 

**_To: Takashi_ **

_09:34 December 22, 22XX_

**_Lance:_ ** _Heard from Keith?_

**_Takashi:_ ** _He’s not with you?_

**_Lance:_ ** _No! He didn’t show up. When did you last hear from him?_

**_Takashi:_ ** _A few days ago? He was on Laurent. Should have been leaving the next day. I thought he’d just forgotten to call_

**_Lance:_ ** _No he’s not here_

**_Lance:_ ** _His communicator’s offline_

**_Lance:_ ** _it’s kind of stupid but i’m worried_

**_Takashi:_ ** _It’s not stupid. Have you talked to Allura or tried Krolia?_

**_Lance:_ ** _No I was gonna give it another day_

**_Takashi_ ** _: We should tell them now._

* * *

 

Allura calls late a few nights later. Early, early Christmas morning. Nighttime calls are never a good thing, and though he knows it’s a completely different time of day on Altea a thrill of dread still hums through his body when his communicator lights up in the pitch-dark of his room. He’s barely slept these past four days, though, so he picks up on the first ring. Allura’s face is pale in the unforgiving light of the screen, the bags under her eyes dark purple.

“Lance. We finally contacted Kolivan.”

His heartbeat nearly launches out of his chest. “And?”

She looks lost. “Keith was on a mission to Laurent. He didn’t leave when he should have. You know all that.” She closes her eyes tight and opens them again, looking at him with open grief. “Lance. They found his ship. It was destroyed, a few vargas out from Laurent, in an astroid belt. There were a few bodies, too, his crew members. And—they found his blade.”

He knows what she’s about to say. He still has to ask. “Where is he?”

A tear runs down her cheek. “He’s missing, Lance.” She closes her eyes. “Presumed dead.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Me: maybe this is too angsty. maybe they're getting hurt too much. should i chill out?  
> My hurt/comfort addicted monkey brain: hnnng angst leads to bonding i need more
> 
> I have a fic tumblr now. [come say hi.](https://prevalent-masters.tumblr.com)


	6. Lost

Keith walks ahead of him, mere inches out of reach. Lance follows, as he always does. He would follow Keith anywhere.

He calls out to him, but Keith doesn’t turn. Doesn’t speed up, doesn’t slow down, stays just out of arm’s reach when Lance extends his hands. He calls his name again, but no sound comes out of his mouth. He tries again to speak, to scream — his voice bottles up in his throat and he can’t force it out. He reaches, desperate, but Keith pulls ahead of him, walking steadily, braid swaying against his back. Lance can’t keep up. He’s stuck, he realizes, feet sealed to the earth, though nothing discernible holds them there. 

Lance screams and screams, silent. Keith walks on, oblivious, until he’s nothing but a speck on the horizon, leaving Lance behind, going to a place where he can’t follow.

* * *

People probably expect him to fall apart. After all, he’s been a nonfunctional mess for over two years now, the slightest thing pushing him over the edge. This is not a slight thing. This is the unthinkable, a disaster, something that _wasn’t supposed to happen_.

And yet—he goes back to the Garrison when term begins and starts teaching—two classes, now. He slides through the motions and holds himself together and everything is just—blank. Nothing. It’s like he’s walking through a dream world, waiting to wake up. This cannot be the real world—a world where Keith is dead. 

_Dead_. Maybe that’s why he hasn’t fallen to pieces—because it isn’t true. It simply can’t be. Keith Kogane cannot be something as mundane and static as _dead_.

This topic has become one of his favorites to talk about, even though most people aren’t listening, just think he’s crazy and in denial. It’s starting to make him angry, and it’s what he’s yelling to Hunk about over video feed late one night after classes have finished and he’s pacing restless back in his Garrison rooms. 

_“_ An astroid belt? A fucking _astroid belt?_ Are you _kidding me_? If an astroid belt beat Keith Kogane then he must have been asleep at the fucking wheel, which he wasn’t, because he’s Keith. I can’t believe it, Hunk. I _don’t_ believe it.”

Hunk looks exhausted over the grainy video feed and Lance isn’t even sure where he is because he’s on some sort of delicate diplomatic mission and he can’t _tell_ Lance which only serves to make him feel even more useless and want a big old Hunk hug.

Hunk sighs, shakes his head, and says, “It happens. Keith was an incredible pilot, but even the experts can make mistakes.”

Lance scoffs. “Don’t say _was_. And don’t be stupid. Keith didn’t make a mistake in an asteroid belt. He flew through those for _fun_. Come on, man, doesn’t this all seem a little odd to you?”

“Sure it does,” Hunk replies. “I mean, yeah, _really_ weird. But….” He trails off.

“They didn’t find a body.”

“They crashed into an asteroid. It—he could have been crushed. They weren’t able to fully search the wreckage. He could have been flung away from the ship, he could have been dragged into the gravitational force of one of the moons, he could just be…gone. It’s space. It happens.”

“Stop saying _it happens_ , Hunk, it doesn’t _just happen_.”

Hunk sighs again. “Look, Lance, I agree it’s weird. Just—please don’t do anything stupid. I’m gonna be back at the Garrison in three days and we can all talk then. Just—you’re talking with Shiro and Pidge, right? You’ve seen them?”

“Nobody’s seen Shiro since we got the news. He’s hiding in his apartment. Matt had to bully Curtis into telling him where he was and confirming he’s not gone completely off the deep end. It’s just—this is just so unfair, Hunk. It was supposed to be over.” His grits his teeth, willing himself not to cry. “We weren’t supposed to lose anyone else.” Not diplomats. Not Blade members. Not kids at the Garrison. Not _Keith_.

“I know,” Hunk says softly. “I know, Lance. I’ll be there soon, okay? So will Allura. We’ll talk then.”

Lance nods.

“I love you, buddy. You know that, right?”

He nods again. “Yeah.” His voice comes out thick. “I know. Love you too. Come back safe.”

“I will,” Hunk promises, and the feed cuts out in a rush of static. Lance sinks down on the edge of his bed in his tiny Garrison apartment and lets the tablet hang from the tips of his fingers. He’d rushed back here as soon as Allura delivered the news, but he wishes he hadn’t. Something about the Garrison makes him feel even more useless than he did in Cuba. At least he’s close to Shiro and the Holts here. Someone to share this sucking, panicked grief. 

He stands up and paces up and down the length of the room, then kicks the wall just to make himself feel better and ends up possibly breaking a toe. It doesn’t make him feel better.

He goes to find Shiro. 

“Shiro!” He pounds on the door of his apartment, the noise echoing up and down the hall. Someone passing by at the other end of it looks at him like he’s being a nuisance, and he is. “ _Shiro_!”

The door yanks open and Curtis peers out. “Lance. I know you want to talk to him, but he’s _really_ not in a good place right now, just give it a day or two—“

“I’m not in a good place, either,” Lance snaps, and leans around Curtis to yell into the apartment. “Shiro, do you really think he’s dead? I mean, _come on_!”

“Uh,” Curtis says, trying to shove him back into the hallway. “I don’t think that’s the way to go about it, Lance. False hope isn’t going to help any of us."

“It’s not false hope, Curtis! Things don’t add up! Let me _in!_ ” 

“Let him in,” a voice croaks from within the apartment, hoarse and almost too quiet to hear.

Curtis sighs and withdraws the arm blocking the entrance. 

“ _Thank_ you,” Lance says, and tries to stride past with dignity. 

Shiro sits slumped at the kitchen table, a full cup of tea steaming in front of him, eyes rimmed in red and undershot by deep, dark circles. He looks like he hasn’t slept in days, and he probably hasn’t. He also looks like he’s been crying. He doesn’t even try to muster a smile for Lance, just stares at him as he takes a seat across from him.

“Tea?” Curtis offers, trailing him into the kitchen.

“Oh, uh—“

“The water’s already hot. Earl Grey or peppermint?”

“Earl Grey, I guess. Thanks?”

Curtis doesn’t say anything else, just nods tightly and turns to the counter. Lance looks back towards Shiro.

“Well?” he asks. “Do you?”

Shiro sighs. “I don’t know.” He bows his head and cradles his forehead in his hands. “I don’t know.”

“He’s not,” Lance declares again. “It doesn’t make sense. None of it does. The timing, the astroid belt, finding his knife but not his body…it just doesn’t add up. The knife’s insignia is still glowing, according to the Blades that found it! That means he _can’t_ be dead, right?”

“I don’t know, Lance,” Shiro says again, slowly, massaging tiny circles into his temples with his fingers. “The blade is still technically Krolia’s, as long as she’s alive, it should still glow. I think it does add up. All the rebel attacks, targeting the Blade, the unrest on Laurent…. I think you’re right that he didn’t crash his ship in an asteroid belt. I think the rebels will claim the attack any minute now. But I don’t think—I don’t think he’s—he’s—“ his shoulders give a little shudder and then he’s crying, right there in front of Lance. He’s only seen Shiro cry a few times, even during the worst of the war, and he feels numb and helpless in front of it.

Curtis slams a mug of tea down in front of him, liquid sloshing over the edge to splash on the table, and moves to put an arm around Shiro, rubbing gentle circles on his shoulder. He glares at Lance like _see what you did_? Shiro leans into him and Lance has to look away. Watching Shiro fall apart is strange and unsettling, makes the whole thing seem more real, somehow. 

“I still don’t think it adds up,” he says again, staring into the depths of the mug of tea. “I don’t think he’s dead.”

“ _Lance,”_ Curtis hisses at him above Shiro’s head. 

“No,” Lance says flatly, to both of them. “We can’t just give up. At the very least, we have to follow any leads we have, we have to look into the story, we have to question people. We have to _prove_ he’s dead, not just hear it from someone and give up. What kind of shitty friends would that make us?”

Shiro looks up at him, tears still falling. “Lance. He’s been running around the universe with a massive target on his back ever since the war ended. I wanted him to stop leading such dangerous missions, especially after the attack on Earth; I _begged_ him, but he didn’t want to stop. He _couldn’t._ He knew the danger. It’s—this isn't a surprising outcome.”

“How can you say that?” Lance asks, voice creeping up towards a yell. 

Shiro squeezes his eyes closed. “I can’t pin any hope on it not being true. It’s already too much.”

“Shiro, we’d _know_!” Lance knows he sounds pleading, desperate. “What about the paladin bond? We used to know when one of us was in trouble, or in pain. We’d _know_ if he was gone!”

“The Lions are gone now. So is the paladin bond. We wouldn’t know.”

“Fine.” Lance pushes away from the table, nearly upsetting the mugs of tea. He makes his way to the door and yanks it open but pauses before walking through. “You know, Shiro, Keith _never_ gave up on you. There was never any reason to believe you weren’t dead, with the story the Garrison fed us, but he never believed it for a second. He got thrown out for you, he searched for you, he nearly starved alone in that cabin for you. He believed you were alive, and he was right, and he found you. Don’t you think he deserves the same from you?”

He catches one brief look at Shiro’s shattered expression before the door falls closed behind him.

* * *

His dreams these days are dark, writhing things. He searches for Keith through thick mist and fog, lost himself, blind, calling for him with no voice. He runs through a maze, a tantalizing glimpse of red fabric or black hair whipping around a corner in front of him every so often, yelling for Keith to slow down, to not go on without him. He begs Red to save him, but Red just sits, dispassionate, refusing to follow his commands. He wakes gasping, tangled in sheets, his cheeks wet.

* * *

Allura, Coran, Hunk, and Kolivan arrive at the Garrison two weeks after Keith is declared missing. They meet, along with Shiro, Pidge, and Matt, early in the morning in one of the conference rooms, data projected on the holoscreen covering one wall, Iverson presiding with a grim face. 

“Here’s what we know,” he says gruffly. “Kogane went missing sometime between December 18th and 21st, based on the Earth calendar. According to officials from Laurent, he left at the planned time, late on December 17th, after being on Laurent for over two weeks. Nothing strange happened during that time, as far as we know—his team helped with some humanitarian aid, he attended several diplomatic meetings, there was no unrest to speak of on Laurent during the time he was there. No one had further communication with Kogane or anyone else on the ship after 09:00 Earth time on the 18th of December.”

“The strange thing,” Allura interjects. “Is that the asteroid field the ship wreckage was found in was mere vargas out from Laurent. If they crashed there, the last transmission from them should have been earlier than it was.”

“That’s what I’m talking about! The timeline doesn’t add up!” Lance bursts out. Allura quells him with a look, then runs her hand through her short hair, leaving the usually perfect strands rumpled.

“What was the last transmission from his ship? And who received it?” Pidge asks.

Kolivan clears his throat. “The last transmission was from one of his crew members, Rax. It was received by the Alliance-controlled checkpoint on the far side of the asteroid field. It simply stated they would be refueling at the checkpoint and the expected arrival was in four vargas. The checkpoint responded with an affirmative, which was received by the ship, but the ship never arrived at the checkpoint.”

“But technically, if they left when they supposedly did, they should have reached the checkpoint a few vargas before they even sent that transmission,” Pidge says, typing something into her tablet. “I agree with Lance, something definitely doesn’t add up.”

“ _Thank_ you,” Lance mumbles.

“And we’re trying to figure that out,” Iverson says. “Rax. What do you know about him?” He addresses the question to Kolivan. “Why was he the one making a transmission? If Kogane was the mission leader, shouldn’t it have been him? Or a designated communications officer?”

“He was a fairly new recruit.” Kolivan says. “Half Laurentian, which is why we sent him on the mission. I do not have much to say about him. He passed through our trials with no problems and was a decent operative. No diplomatic work before this mission, but very invested in our humanitarian efforts. That is why he joined our ranks. As for him making the transmission, it is not strange to me. We rarely have designated communication officers—whoever has the time or ability to do the job will. Often each member of a crew is on communications at some point during a mission.”

“Rax’s body was among the dead, anyway,” Allura says quietly. “It seems unlikely he hijacked the mission or captured Keith, only to end up dead himself.”

“It could have been a suicide mission,” Hunk points out.

Kolivan shrugs. “Perhaps. Though it would be difficult for a double agent to survive among the Blade. Our trials tend to prevent that, and our blades themselves often will not work for those who are not loyal to our cause, if they change their allegiance during their time with us.” 

Coran clears his throat. “The rebels still have not taken responsibility. They are usually eager to claim victories, especially those that involve Blade members. Perhaps we ought to consider that this was simply what it looks like—a tragic accident.”

“Keith didn’t crash in an asteroid field!” Lance interjects loudly. Most of the people at the table glare at him, but Allura, surprisingly, nods.

“I agree with Lance, actually,” she says. 

Lance sputters. “You—you _do_?”

“Yes. Regardless of what we think did or didn’t happen, the fact remains that the timing just doesn’t add up. Someone at some point either reported something inaccurate, or is purposefully lying to us. We need to figure out that discrepancy before we determine what happened to Keith.”

Lance is so relieved she shares his sentiment he nearly falls out of his chair, wilting with relief. “You—you don’t think he’s dead?”

Allura shoots him a sharp glance. “I’m not saying that. I’m saying that these circumstances are extremely suspicious and we cannot trust what anyone is telling us until we are able to confirm it through our own intelligence efforts. That being said, I agree we should not jump to conclusions too quickly.”

Across the table, Shiro puts his head in his hands.

After a short silence, Kolivan speaks again. “Based on some of our intelligence gathering, it has been suggested to me that Ranveig may be basing his operations out of the Laurentian system.”

Allura turns to him. “Where?” she demands. “Laurent is the only habitable planet in the whole sector! The rest are gas giants, or have no atmosphere to speak of! There’s nowhere to hide!”

Kolivan inclines his head, infuriatingly calm. “It is possible he has circumvented that. The planets are far-flung, and known to be inhospitable. He could be hiding a fleet of ships inside a gas giant, or within the orbit of an outer rocky planet. Hiding in plain sight. It is possible he and other Galra could be there without Laurent’s knowledge. We have been investigating, but cautiously due to the high level of danger. We will pursue these leads with urgency in light of these recent events.”

“What do you mean by ‘it’s possible’ they might be there without Laurent’s knowledge?” Lance asks. “Do you mean…it’s possible the Laurentians know they’re there? And they’re letting it happen?”

Kolivan turns his stony attention to Lance. “I am unsure. It is possible they are allowing it, or even working with them, given the high levels of unrest and the connection of their chief diplomat to the rebels. Or perhaps they know but simply have no soldiers or firepower to drive them from the system. Perhaps they are afraid. The Empire was not kind to Laurent.”

“Okay,” Lance says. “Great. We’ve established that this whole thing is suspicious as hell, Laurent is suspicious as hell, and Ranveig is suspicious as hell. Now what do we _do_ about it?”

Allura shoots him another of her Looks. “ _We_ do nothing. _I_ send out my intelligence operatives to gather information, _I_ send a diplomatic contingency to Laurent to politely pressure them into giving us more information. _Kolivan_ sends out the Blade to root out Ranveig, _Pidge_ , under the orders of Admiral Iverson, will try to recover the ship’s log, communication history, and location map. _You_ , and the rest of us, will sit tight and wait until we know more, because if you do not, you could compromise this mission and any hope of recovering Keith, should he be alive, or his body, if he is indeed dead. Do you understand me?”

“I can help!” Lance knows he’s pushing, but why the hell else was he included in this meeting if it wasn’t to give him some sort of job to do? “Allura, I’m going crazy here. _Please_ , just let me—“

“You’re too emotional, Lance! You’d be putting Keith in more danger! Once we know more, there _will_ be something you can do, you just need to be patient and _wait_!”

“I’m _too emotional?_ Of fucking course I am! We should all be _emotional_ , Allura! He’s our friend!”

“She’s right, Lance,” Shiro croaks, looking up for the first time during the whole meeting. He still looks like hell, rumpled and tired and so, so, sad. “You are too emotional. So am I. So, presumably, is Krolia, which is why she isn’t here. None of us should be working on this unless we can keep our emotions in check. We have to wait until we know more.”

Lance glares at him, then at the rest of the people around the table, furiously wishing someone would say _something_ , anything to refute Shiro and Allura. No one does.

“Fine,” he says, pushing away from the table. “I guess I just have to hope someone tells me if you _do_ find anything.”

He storms out.

He’s aware it’s not the most mature reaction, nor is it proof that he’s emotionally stable enough to be handling this. 

He doesn’t care. 

He’s halfway down the hall when he hears the shout behind him—“Lance!”

He stops and turns around only because it’s Shiro’s voice, and Shiro hasn’t spoken to him since he yelled at him four days ago. He crosses his arms as Shiro approaches, shielding himself from the conversation. Shiro’s probably going to yell at _him_ now. He probably deserves it.

“Lance,” Shiro says again as he draws close. “I owe you an apology.”

He drops his arms in surprise. “You—what?”

“You were right. You _are_ right. Everything you pointed out to me is true—this whole situation is incredibly suspicious, and I think you’re right that there’s more going on here, especially given the rebels haven’t claimed the attack. I just—“ he heaves a breath and closes his eyes. “I can’t pin my hopes on Keith being alive. I can’t believe it until I have some real evidence right in front of me. Do you understand? It’ll kill me if I believe it, and we’re wrong.”

“It’ll kill me if I believe he’s gone,” Lance whispers, and finds tears welling in his eyes. He hasn’t cried yet, outside of his dreams. He’s been too angry, too disbelieving, too determined to convince the others something isn’t right. It’s not until he says that word—“gone”, not “dead”, somehow worse than “dead”—that the situation fully hits him. 

He lifts his fingertips to his eyes in a fruitless attempt to stop the tears, like he could hold them in his palms or push them back into his eye sockets. Through the haze of moisture, he sees Shiro’s expression break, mouth crumpling, his own eyes filling again with tears. Shiro reaches for him.

Before he knows it, they’re hugging. His face is stuffed in the crook of Shiro’s neck and Shiro’s arms are tight around him, warm reassurance, and Shiro’s Altean hand rubs circles between his shoulder blades, and Lance breaks.

He clings to Shiro, sobbing, knees weak and heart aching. He wants to scream, he wants to break something, he wants to kill everything that ever even thought of hurting Keith. 

He wants Keith.

He wants Keith, so, so badly.

“I didn’t have time,” he sobs incoherently. “He was supposed to come back.”

“I know,” Shiro says.

“He _promised me._ ”

“I know,” Shiro says.

“Shiro—Shiro, I—I—“ _love him._ He can’t choke the words past his lips, but he figures it’s probably clear enough what he’s trying to say.

“I know,” Shiro says, so softly Lance almost can’t hear it.

“You _know_?”

“Lance, anyone who’s paid attention to you two for the last six months knows.” Shiro pulls back, holding Lance by the shoulders. “And I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

Lance scrubs at his eyes furiously with the heels of his palms. “I can’t give up on him, Shiro. I just can’t.”

“I know,” Shiro says again. “And we shouldn’t. You were right, what you said. He never gave up on me. I owe it to him not to give up, either. None of us are, Lance. We’re all trying to figure out what happened, so we can help him if we can. Okay?”

Lance sniffles and nods.

“It might not go as fast as you want it to. This is an extremely delicate situation. We _cannot_ make any mistakes from here on out. Besides Keith, this is also our best shot to track down Ranveig, and untangle whatever is going on with Laurent. We have to be careful, and let the people who know what they’re doing do the work they know how to do. That means you and I, and everyone else, just has to wait. But that _does not_ mean we’re giving up. Got it?”

Lance stands up straighter and tries to will the last of the tears away. He should probably be more shocked, or embarrassed, that he just confessed feelings he wasn’t even sure about before this very moment to Shiro and Shiro acted like it was the most obvious thing in the world, but all he feels is an empty sort of relief. At least maybe Shiro understands why Lance is being so unreasonable about all this. They both love Keith, after all.

"Yeah,” he manages to croak out. “Yeah, I got it.”

Shiro squeezes his shoulder. “No matter what happens, we’ll make it through. Keith would want us to.”

He hates the way he says it, like Keith’s gone, speaking from the grave, but Shiro is still right. So he does as everyone says. He waits. And waits. And waits. For news. For some sign. For a ping on his tablet or the ringing of his phone. He waits, and he researches Laurent and the sector it’s in and the empty space surrounding it. He listens to endless streams of radio chatter, none of it any use. He teaches his class, he sits in meetings, he goes back and forth between home and the Garrison. He plants avocado trees, feeds chickens, trellises tomatoes, takes his niece and nephew to the beach. Lisa is pregnant again. Marco’s getting married, to a girl who works at the surf shop. Life winds its way forward, and he waits for some news, some whisper, some rumor of Keith.

And nothing comes.

* * *

After a month and a half of excruciating silence, Krolia disappears. Or, rather, she doesn’t _disappear_. She goes missing, after an unauthorized trip to Laurent, presumably looking for Keith. She just vanishes.

Conveniently, everyone “forgets” to tell Lance for two days. He doesn’t find out until he gets back to the Garrison after being home for the weekend, when Pidge lets it slip, and he barrels into Shiro’s office like a maniac as soon as he finds out.

“When were you planning on telling me?” he demands, as soon as he opens the door. Shiro looks startled, then resigned, then back to his baseline of tired and sad. “Kolivan only told us yesterday,” he starts, and Lance interrupts him before he can really start explaining himself.

“Why didn’t you call me? This is—this is big! This is proof!”

Shiro rubs at the wrinkles on his forehead. “Proof of what, exactly?” 

Lance slams his hand down on his desk. Shiro jumps slightly. “That Laurent’s behind it! Come on, Shiro! The Blade avoids Laurent for ages because they’re extremely hostile to Galra, a bunch of rebels have weird connections to that system, the fucking _ambassador_ turns out to be a rebel leader, the Blade finally sends a team there for relief work and they end up supposedly dead in an astroid field, they give us all kinds of excuses and a timeline that doesn’t add up, and now Krolia, who clearly agreed with me that Laurent is five kinds of suspicious, goes there and disappears. They’re behind this. They captured Keith. He’s _there_.”

Shiro shakes his head slowly. “You’re jumping to all sorts of conclusions, Lance.”

“No I’m not! Jesus, Shiro, what’s blocking your sight here? At the very least, you have to admit there’s something they’re hiding, even if they’re not behind everything!”

“ _Yes_ , Lance, I agree with that! But Allura sent a diplomatic mission there, and the Blade has been scouring the sector for signs of Ranveig, or any Galra, for that matter; and there’s nothing. The timing inconsistencies were written off as a technological error, which is absolutely plausible. We can’t go after something if we have _no leads!”_

“This whole situation is a lead!” Lance snaps, then storms out of the office. Part of him feels guilty—he knows Shiro is just scared, and that makes sense. He doesn’t want to follow up on something that might just add up to another dead end. But Lance’s instincts are screaming at him—they’ve been screaming at him since this whole disaster started. Back in his own office, he fumes over some evaluations he should have finished last week distractedly, accomplishing little.

Thoughts swirl in his head like the ocean during a storm. The Laurentians. _Alliance trained scum_. The dozens of Blade members killed or missing in the last year, some of their deaths claimed by the rebels, many written off as hazards of the job, work on planets with volatile political situations. The blaster wound searing across Keith’s thigh. _Things are bound to be a bit unstable_. Knife flung through the air towards Allura. The long, pink scar etched forever across Keith’s abdomen. _The others are attached to you, especially the Blade Commander_. Keith. Keith. _Keith_.

He misses him.

When Marco told them all he was engaged a few weeks ago, he’d automatically reached for his communicator. Called Keith. Listened to it ring and ring until, in a gut-wrenching moment, he’d remembered.

_There was always something about you, Lance._

Fuck. 

He’s crying again. He cries at nothing these days, a perpetually leaky faucet. 

He wishes he’d never heard of Laurent. He hadn’t, not through the whole war, which is strange. He remembers the first time he’d heard of them, when that slimy diplomat was standing up at the six month celebration, spouting some shit about trade routes, Allura leaning close and whispering to him, just before….

Sharp blade. Golden skin. A soft accent. _You fool_.

He sits up straight at his desk, sending a stack of evaluations fluttering to the ground.

Golden skin. A soft accent. Even with the extra arms, it should have been obvious. He _is_ a fool. They all are.

He calls Allura. She doesn’t answer. He figures it’s on purpose, because she’s probably tired of him calling her and yelling about Laurent and Keith.

This time, it really means something. He calls her again.

And again.

The fourth call, she picks up, looking furious.

“It’s the middle of the night, Lance,” she hisses, and—whoops. She’s right.

“Sorry,” he says, rushed and tripping over his own words to get them out. “Sorry, I just—Allura, I realized something.”

A tousled blond head pokes up into the frame and peers at Lance. “Oh,” Romelle says. “Lance.” She flops back down out of sight, but he can hear her sigh. It’s weird. This is weird. It shouldn’t be anymore, but it is.

“Lance?” Allura says, sounding impatient—and right, he had something important to say.

“The assassin at the six-month celebration,” Lance says. “Laurentian.”

Allura sighs, long-suffering. “No. They were half Roibong, half Teq.”

“They were lying. They had a Laurentian accent. Golden skin.”

“They had a Teq accent, Lance. You heard them speak! Didn’t you hear the harshness of the vowels? And the Roibong people have golden-tinted skin. You know that.”

He slams a hand on the desk in frustration. “They were lying! I did hear them speak! Right in my ear, soft. It was a Laurentian accent. They put on a different accent to hide their identity. Allura, you have to believe me! I’ve been trying for _months_ to figure out why the Laurentian accent is so familiar sounding and it’s because of that assassin! Look…they’re still in custody, right?”

Allura’s lips are pinched like she just ate a lemon. “Well, we didn’t very well let them go.”

“Question them again. Please. Tell them we know they’re part Laurentian, or they have ties to the system, or _something_. See if you can get any other information from them.”

“Lance, you are really…what is that phrase Shiro always uses? Grasping with…?”

“Grasping at straws. And I’m not. _Please,_ Allura. Just question them again. It can’t hurt.”

She sighs. “Fine. I’ll let you know if anything comes of it. Now, if you don’t mind, I’m going back to sleep.”

“Sweet dreams,” he says, and hangs up.

* * *

The thing is, he knows he’s driving everyone crazy. He knows it’s hurting Shiro, and stressing Allura out. He knows Pidge is ready to kick him into the next century if he bugs her while she’s tracking ship movements in and out of Laurent one more time. He knows Hunk is only picking up his calls out of pity at this point. He knows he sounds desperate.

The thing is, he also knows he’s right. Knows it with the sort of conviction he hasn’t felt since the war, when he was sure about something and no one was listening to him, and he ended up being right.

It’s like fucking deja vu. It really is.

He knows Laurent is behind this somehow, whether of their own volition or not. He knows the fact that Ranveig is back, with firepower and allies and a thirst for power, has something to do with it, too. He knows the missing Blades aren’t coincidental, nor should they be written off as acceptable casualties of a volatile situation. He knows the shadiness and secrecy of the rebels—so sudden, such a large group, flung across the whole universe, capable of attacks far beyond what one would expect from a rag-tag group of loosely knit allies disgruntled over some diplomacy issues—is hiding something larger. He knows it all, and beneath that, he _knows_ that Keith is alive. In his bones, he knows. He’s alive, but not safe. He’s alive, but in danger. He’s alive, waiting for them, and they’re all just wasting time. 

He knows it all, but no one really believes him.

True to her word, Allura questioned the assassin again. This time, they gave more information. They’ve been sitting in a prison cell for the last year and a half, so maybe they were just excited to have someone to talk to. They’re a quarter Laurentian. Their mother’s mother was one of the millions of Laurentians sent off planet for slave labor in the quintessence mines right after the Galra conquered them. They admitted to being introduced to the rebels through Laurentian contacts. It’s been a year and a half, so they don’t have any information on any current rebel plans, and they say they’ve never even heard of Ranveig. As far as they know, the people bankrolling the rebellion aren’t Galran, they’re wealthy traders who are disgruntled with the way the Alliance has handled things and miss the fruitful, universe-wide economy provided by the empire. 

Essentially, it doesn’t tell them anything they didn’t already know, and Lance is mad about it. He’d been so sure he was on to something, and it feels like the entire universe is making him the butt of a joke. Everyone's laughing but him. 

Still, it’s something, some sort of news, which means they’re having another meeting about it. All they ever have is meetings. No action. This one is just him, Pidge, and Iverson slumped around a conference table with Kolivan and Coran on the screen in front of them. Shiro didn’t even bother coming.

“Laurent is peaceful,” Coran is saying. “They’ve always been peaceful. Just because there are many rebels attached to the system does not mean the entire species, or their leaders, are trying to start a war. It would be extremely uncharacteristic.”

“It’s been ten thousand years,” Lance points out, something Coran seems to forget every so often. “Maybe they’ve changed.”

“The Empire devastated Laurent,” Kolivan rumbles. He looks tired, if it’s possible for Kolivan to look anything other than completely blank. “Even if they were warmongering, they hardly have the resources to mount these types of attacks, or to bankroll an entire rebellion. They do not even have the resources to rebuild their cities or house their refugees.”

“So they’re working with someone else,” Lance says. “Ranveig hiding in that sector—what if they invited him there? What if they’re helping him? Or, maybe the assassin was right. Maybe it is just angry rich dudes giving desperate people money to fight a war for them.”

“I cannot believe that,” Coran says. "It would be easy to track that sort of thing down, and we have not even heard a whisper of that sort of activity."

“We also have not found Ranveig,” Kolivan says. “No sign of him. We’ve scoured the system.” If Lance could detect any emotion in his voice at all, it would be hopelessness.

“What about Krolia?”

“The Laurentians insist she never arrived on planet,” Coran says.

“She did, though,” Pidge interrupts. “Her ship did, at least. I tracked it.”

Kolivan turns to her sharply. “She was using cloaking technology. She couldn’t be tracked.”

Pidge scoffs. “I _invented_ that tech. I accessed the ship logs. It landed.”

“Why didn’t you tell us that sooner, Holt?” Iverson demands. Pidge looks sheepish. 

“I, uh, figured you knew? It was pretty obvious.”

“I thought you made that tech un-hackable.”

“No tech is un-hackable. Especially by the person who wrote the code. Come on, Mitch.”

“That’s _Admiral_ to you, Holt—“

“Okay,” Lance interrupts. “Yet another point against Laurent. I don’t think diplomacy or sneaking around looking for stuff without leads is working. We need to go in with the big guns, here! Keith is depending on us, and now Krolia is, too! Not to mention however many other missing Blades are stuck on Laurent.”

“We _need_ to avoid starting another intergalactic war,” Coran says. “‘Big guns’ is not going to avoid that.”

They’re going around in circles again. It’s all they ever do. 

Lance gets up and leaves.

* * *

That night, Shiro finds him in the docking bay, standing in front of a shuttle. There’s a knapsack at his feet with a couple pairs of underwear, his gun, a bag of coffee beans from Cuba and paperback books of the genre he knows Keith likes. He's had a fantasy for months of finding Keith, wrapping him up in blankets and handing him a book, making him a cup of coffee, and barricading the door to stop anyone from every bothering them again. Never mind that Keith would probably flat-out refuse most of those things.

He’s been there for an hour already, trying to get up the courage to climb in to the shuttle, to use his authorization as a commander and just _leave_. He’s studied the maps. He knows the way to Laurent by heart. Could get there with his eyes closed.

“Don’t,” Shiro says softly, coming to stand behind him.

“Why not?” Lance asks, not even bothering to turn around. 

“You think Keith would want you to kill yourself trying to find him?”

“I wouldn’t.”

“Going in without a plan? Alone? Krolia already tried it, and look what happened. It won’t help anything if we lose you, too.”

He doesn’t answer. The roof of the Garrison docking bay is all glass, wide open to the night sky above. It reminds him of the observation deck of the Castle of Lions, just endless space spread in front of him, though the brilliance of the stars here are somewhat dulled by the lights of Earth. Keith’s up there somewhere, lost or captured or maybe dead. Keith’s up there, alone, and it’s been so long now he probably doesn’t think anyone’s looking for him.

_He’s alive. He’s alive. He has to be alive._

Lance closes his eyes. If things were normal, Keith would probably be coming to visit soon. He imagines him walking up the path to their house, stubbornly wearing his jacket despite the heat, hair tied up to keep it off his neck. Keith, as he’s been dozens of times now, sliding into place next to Lance like he never left. Solid, sturdy, proof that all that happened was real, that he made it through, that he’s here, alive, and all his friends are, too.

And something more, maybe. The fire in Lance’s chest. That little smile, the tilt of Keith’s head, _there was always something about you, Lance_ ….

If things were normal, would Lance have been brave enough to draw Keith into his arms and kiss him, they way he’s dreamed of for months? Or would he remain silent, keep his hands to himself?  


Would he have realized it, really, if Keith hadn’t been snatched away from him?

Behind his closed eyelids, he sees his house. The smooth, scrubbed wood of the kitchen table, the plates piled in the dish rack, the hand painted pottery lining the shelves. The walls of photographs and childhood art, the pile of dirty boots by the front door, someone’s jacket thrown over the back of the couch, the view out the window towards the sea, seed catalogues piled on the desk next to the old computer. The glow in the dark star map in his room, the warmth of his sheets when Keith was in bed with him. The easy way Keith slid into his home and made it more comfortable, the same easy way he slid into life beside Lance in space and at the Garrison, always comforting, always solid, always there.

He can't think about it too much. Can’t think about how, especially since the end of the war, the place he felt most comfortable, most at home, was wherever Keith was.

Uprooted now, nothing feels like home. Not Cuba. Not the Garrison. Definitely not the endless abyss of space, or Altea, or Daibazaal, Keith’s empty, cold apartment he’s never even seen.

Shiro’s hand lands on his shoulder. “Come have some tea.”

He knows the offer’s only made so Shiro can keep an eye on him, can make sure he doesn’t slip away in the night, but he follows him back to his apartment anyway, wipes away tears over a mug of chamomile, falls asleep on their couch and wakes with a fleece blanket draped over him. When he turns up the next night, knocking on the door after the first nightmare tears him out of sleep, Curtis doesn’t even blink an eye, just hands him a blanket and a mug of tea and watches an inane late-night talk show with him until sleep takes him again.

* * *

A week later, he’s sitting in his office, bored out of his mind finishing his now inexcusably late evaluations, when the door opens so violently it bounces off the wall and nearly slams shut again. Outside stands Pidge, face red, panting.

“Come on,” she gasps, gesturing at him to get up. “Quick.”

Adrenaline thrums through him. “What?”

She just shakes her head, too out of breath to speak.

He gets up and follows her at a dead sprint through the halls to Shiro’s office. They burst into the room and Lance nearly collides with Iverson’s back where he’s bent over Shiro’s desk, staring at the comm link open on Shiro’s holoscreen. Behind the desk, Matt and Curtis stand over Shiro. Pidge edges into a corner and Lance crowds in next to Iverson. Allura’s grim face fills the screen. As soon as they enter, Shiro orders, “Say it again, Allura.”

She makes eye contact with Lance and gives a tiny, tight smile. “The Blades found something.”

Lance wilts against the wall. “What?” he asks, voice rasping.

“A Galran battlecruiser, in the middle of the asteroid belt outside of Laurent. It had cloaking, but they had Pidge’s hacking tech and saw right through it. They engaged in a brief skirmish and were able to take several crew members captive before destroying the ship.”

“And?” Lance asks, heart performing a staccato in his chest.

“Ranveig is there, likely with some other allies.” she says. “On one of Laurent’s moons—Ostia. It’s uninhabitable on the surface. No atmosphere. But it apparently has a vast network of caves under the surface, the existence of which has been heavily guarded by Laurent for an eternity. They used them when they were conquered by the Galra and thousands of Laurentians escaped the system that way.”

“That’s where he’s hiding?”

She nods. “Yes. He has a large army there, and is directing the rebels. Or bankrolling them in order to build unrest for his own benefit. We’re still unsure on the details.”

“What about Laurent? Do they know they’re there? Did they…let them?”

Allura looks shattered. “These individuals are probably not the most trustworthy sources…but according to them, Laurent gave Ranveig permission to use the tunnels in return for aid money and future protections from the interferences of the Alliance. They are allegedly displeased by how the Alliance has been handling their requests for aid, they think they’ve not received enough. They also have a great distrust of the Blade, and believe they are only interested in gaining power for the purpose of regaining control of the resources of the Empire, and the Alliance is assisting them. They view the Alliance as the next Empire, essentially, and believe they are being taken advantage of. They were essentially double agents the whole time. I’m sorry, Lance. You were right.”

He waves a hand. “I don’t care about that. What about Keith?”

She looks grim. “They could have given false information. We’re still unsure—“

“No, we’re not,” Shiro interrupts. His voice sounds hoarse, like he’s been crying, or screaming.  “The Blades were baited into sending Keith specifically to carry out diplomatic meetings, and the Laurentians apprehended him and orchestrated the ship’s crash on Ranveig’s orders. He wanted to interrogate him for information and use him as a bargaining chip to come out of hiding and seize power. He’s still alive, as far as they knew.”

A wave of relief washes over Lance and he sits down on the floor, hard, hiding his face in his hands. Alive. Alive. It wasn’t until this moment that Lance realized how much he was doubting his own instincts, and how much he was pushing that doubt down. 

_He’s alive. He’s alive._

_He’s alive, and alone, and he probably thinks we gave up on him._

_It’s been months._

“You were right, Lance,” Shiro is saying, echoing Allura. “I’m sorry we didn't listen.”

“We didn’t know,” he says numbly, voice muffled by his hands. “We didn’t have any proof. You were right about that.”

“Well,” Pidge says, voice strong with conviction. “Now we do. So what are we going to do to get him out of there?”

“We can attack,” Iverson says. “We should. We know where Ranveig is, we can catch him by surprise, root them out of their hiding spot, and get rid of him. Immediately.”

Allura nods. “Kolivan is already mobilizing the Blade, and Alliance forces are coming together, as well. We will be able to mount an attack quite soon, and we plan on doing so. Can we count on your MFE pilots and the Atlas to help, Admirals?”

Shiro nods and Iverson growls, “With pleasure”. Doubt twists in the pit of Lance’s stomach.

“Wonderful,” Allura says. “So, I expect we will be able to move forward within…two quintants?”

“Wait,” Lance interrupts. “No. They can’t go in. Not yet.”

She turns to him, puzzled and slightly annoyed. “Why not, Lance? This is what we’ve been waiting for. This confirms what you’ve been saying all along, and we can finally _do something about it_!”

“Yeah,” he says. “But we need to get Keith first. Think about it. What’s the first thing they’ll do if they hear we’re coming? Or if the people holding him on Laurent see us attacking the moon? They’ll either kill Keith or try using him for leverage, which will probably end in him dead. We can’t let that happen. Not—not now that we know.”

Allura folds her arms. “Well, what do you suggest? We can’t just attack Laurent. That’s much too obvious, and Ranveig would have the upper hand and mount an attack from afar. With the limits of our forces and the time we have to prepare, our only hope is to take them by surprise.”

Lance thinks for a moment, thinks hard—thinks about the prison breaks they used to orchestrate, thinks about freeing Pidge’s dad—what would they do, if this had happened during the war?

Well—they would have taken Voltron and torn whatever ship was holding Keith prisoner to shreds, but that’s no longer an option. So what else?

“I don’t suppose we could just send Kosmo to get him,” Pidge says dully.

“I don’t think it would work,” Shiro replies. “Kosmo needs to be in close proximity to wherever or whomever he’s teleporting to. Otherwise, they would have used him to get out of the quantum abyss. Or to get to Keith faster when he was injured.”

“How many people know about this now, Allura?” Lance asks. She counts on her fingers, thinking. “Us,” she says. “Kolivan, and a few other top Blade officials, plus the members of the ship that captured the Galrans. The other Alliance council members. Coran. Admiral Holt. Romelle. Not many beyond that.”

“Good,” Lance says. “Can we keep it under wraps? Is anyone on the council directly or indirectly connected to Laurent?”

Allura shakes her head again. “No, not after we found out Mula was tied to the rebels. Yet another reason they are dissatisfied. I can order them all to stay quiet about it. But why?”

“We need to figure out a way to get onto Laurent. Suggest a diplomatic meeting, or a dinner, or a party or something. Something to smooth over the hostility of the last few months. We’ll send in a team. You and Shiro, maybe Hunk, some random person off the council. We sneak anyone else in—anyone who would raise suspicions—as part of the ship’s crew, disguised. Maybe use other Alteans, so they can shape-shift or something. Then we use the party or meetings or whatever it is as a distraction, and spring Keith out. _Then_ we attack Ranveig. We can cause a scene while we’re there, or while we’re leaving, distract them all while we attack Ostia. A Trojan horse.”

Allura’s brow furrows. “That’s an incredibly vague plan for what would be an incredibly delicate operation. I’m really not sure we could do it—I’m not sure we’d have the _time_ to do it. We need to move fast, regardless of what we do. It’s only a matter of time before Ranveig realizes that ship was destroyed and some of his soldiers are unaccounted for, and puts two and two together.”

“He’s right though, Allura,” Shiro croaks. “If we attack, Keith is as good as dead. So’s Krolia, and anyone else imprisoned there.”

“Allura,” Lance pleads. “Please. We have to save him. We have to _try_.”

Allura sighs, taps at her earpiece, rubs her eyes. “Fine,” she says eventually. “I have some ways of persuading Laurent to host a party so they think it was their idea in the first place. I can suggest it to some council members, who could suggest it to the Laurentian delegation. They’re nervous. I thought it was because of the tensions between us and them since Mula, but it has been because of Keith and Ranveig the entire time. If that works, we will attempt Lance’s plan. I agree it would be best to get them and anyone else out before an all-out attack. If it doesn’t work, however, we have no time for a second try. We will have to attack immediately if we have any hope of catching Ranveig and putting an end to his warmongering.”

“Agreed,” Shiro says. 

“It’ll work,” Lance says, trying to exude a confidence he doesn’t feel.

That night, when Lance sneaks into the hangar with the knapsack he never unpacked, he finds Shiro waiting beside a shuttle. Matt’s already inside, in the pilot seat.

“What?” he says, because he might have expected Shiro, but not Matt.

“He’s flying,” Shiro says, gesturing for him to get into the shuttle. Not even a word of warning against coming.

“Where’s Pidge?”

“Already on Altea,” Matt says. “She flew out right after the meeting with the mountains of tech she's been working on the last couple months. Couldn’t stop her.”

Lance nods and gets in the shuttle before Shiro changes his mind, and Shiro climbs in after him, shutting the door. Lance drops down into the seat at the back of the cockpit, while Shiro takes the co-pilot position, checking some gauges and flipping up levers. “Ready to go?” he asks Matt, and Matt nods.

Shiro turns back to look at Lance, and really looks at him, gaze burning right to his bones. 

“Are you sure about this?” he asks, and Lance recognizes he’s giving him an out, a chance to bail, a chance to stay safe on Earth and not fly straight into the stuff of his nightmares.

Lance stares back and sets his jaw. “I’m sure,” he says. “For him, I have to.”

Shiro gives him one firm nod, and faces forward. “Let’s go,” he says to Matt. “I already got us clearance.”

Before he can really process what he’s doing, they’re shooting off, already far above the land, the desert shrinking below him until all he can see are the lights of the Garrison, then the lights of town nearby, and Phoenix to the south, Las Vegas and Albuquerque and El Paso and suddenly the outline of the Gulf, the curve of Mexico, Florida’s protrusion and there—the stretch of lights outlining Cuba, growing smaller by the second.

He forgot how quickly planets shrink when you leave them behind. The shuttle shakes as it exits the atmosphere and Lance squeezes his eyes shut, tries to push down the tendrils of panic that are finally catching up to him. By the time he opens them again, Earth is nothing but that fragile blue ball floating in the blackness, and he can’t even make out Cuba anymore. He didn’t even tell his family he was leaving.

A wormhole springs to life in front of them, glowing bright and sending dread into the pit of Lance’s stomach. “Allura?” he asks. “She’s okay with us coming?”

“She’s okay with me coming,” Shiro says. “Or rather, she doesn’t have the authority to stop me. You and Matt are a special surprise.”

“She’s not going to like it!” Matt says, sounding incredibly cheerful about the prospect.

Lance opens his mouth to reply, but before he can they’re entering the wormhole. The familiar hyper speed pinning him to the back of his seat and the flashing colors around him bring the panic back to the forefront of his mind. He remembers this, the first time. Shooting off to the other end of the universe through a wormhole just like this, and not returning for two years. Almost not living long enough to return.

What if that happens again? What if they fail the mission?

_For Keith,_ his mind supplies him. _You’re doing it for Keith._ A warmth settles in his stomach, quelling the panic for a moment. For a moment, Keith’s sitting beside him, hand on the back of his neck, firm and reassuring. For a moment, Keith’s voice urges him to breathe.

Then the ship jolts, and he pulls a leaf from Hunk’s book and pukes his guts out all over the floor of the cockpit, and then they’re free of the wormhole, in the Olkarion sector, and Earth’s nowhere to be seen, and he can’t breathe, he can’t think, _what has he done….?_

When they land, he stumbles out of the shuttle, soaked in sweat, still barely in control of his own breathing, vomit spattered on his shoes and immediately comes face to face with a very annoyed Allura.

“I thought I asked you to keep him out of this,” she says to Shiro over his head.

“I don’t think I could,” Shiro replies. “Or should.”

“You do not have the authority to make that decision!”

“I’m right here,” Lance reminds them, straightening up from his hunched-over position, still fighting nausea. “And I wasn’t just going to sit around waiting to hear if the plan worked. I’m going to get him.”

“You are _not_ ,” Allura says firmly. “We discussed this already. You’re too emotional. It will compromise the mission.” 

“I just flew for the first time in two years to get here,” Lance says. “And you were ready to go blow up that moon without any thought to what would happen to Keith if we did that. I’m not _letting_ you go in without me, he’ll end up getting killed.”

“He’ll end up getting killed if you come and have a panic attack in the middle of the rescue attempt!” It’s a low blow, and she knows it, dropping her eyes from his in shame as soon as she speaks. “I’m sorry, Lance, I just cannot allow it.”

Shiro steps up next to them. “Lance is right. I think he should come.”

Lance turns to Shiro, shocked. He was somewhat surprised Shiro didn’t stop him from boarding the ship, but this is even more surprising. 

She clearly wasn’t expecting it, either. She glares at him and repeats, with danger in her tone. “Again, you do not have the authority to decide who does and does not participate in this mission. I won’t send you back to Earth, but you will not be accompanying the mission to Laurent. Is that clear?”

“No,” Lance says firmly. “It’s not. Look, everyone in the universe knows I went back to Earth to work on a farm. It’s not a secret how much of a mess I am. No one’s going to expect me to be there, even if they know I’m…invested in Keith. That could work in our favor.” Allura hesitates and he presses forward. “I got on that ship because I needed to come help. If I have to sit on the sidelines for a second longer I’m going to go insane. If you stop me, I’ll just go separately. You know I would.” 

She considers him. “I could lock you up.”

“You wouldn’t.”

Beside them, Shiro sighs. “Come on, Allura. You two are both overreacting. We don’t even have a plan yet. At least let him help figure out what to do. He’s got good instincts.”

She opens her mouth like she wants to say more, purses her lips, and turns on her heel to leave. Lance lets out a shaking sigh and picks up his bag to follow her. The familiarity of the Altean castle’s hangar is almost painful—this was his last glimpse of Altea, of Allura, before he went back to Earth. The gleaming walls and blue tinted lights are burned into his memory. He casts his eyes to the ground and tries not to drown in memories as they leave the hangar and head down the hallways of the castle, towards the public facilities and meeting spaces. Before long, before Lance has time to fully fall into panic for a different reason, Allura’s herded them all into a small room with a round table and a holoscreen covering one wall. A few people, including Pidge, Kolivan, and Romelle, are already seated at the table, and the one closest to the door lets out a loud cry and leaps from his chair as they walk into the room. 

“Hunk!” Lance says, and lets him pick him up off his feet in a bear hug. Hunk’s already babbling in his ear—“Oh my god, buddy, I didn’t think you’d be here, no one told me you’d be here, that’s so great, so I guess that means you flew, right? Man, I’m proud of you—hey, how are you feeling? Are you good? That’s pretty intense but I guess if you were gonna do it for anyone you’d do it for Keith, right? Gosh, this is crazy, huh, I’m glad you’ll be here to help us figure—“

“Woah,” Lance croaks from the vice grip of his arms. “Slow down. What do you mean if there was anyone I’d do it for it’d be Keith? And what are _you_ doing here? Not that I’m not happy to see you.”

Hunk puts him down and looks at him with something akin to pity. “Really, Lance? It’s not like you’ve been hiding how you feel…like at that dinner, when you got totally wasted and were hanging off Keith the whole night…”

“I wasn’t _hanging off him_ ,” Lance snaps, and quickly changes the subject. “Anyway, you didn’t answer my main question, which is _why are you here_?”

Hunk shrugs. “Allura asked me to be a part of the rescue team. I was in the area, so I came.”

“She asked _you_?” Anger flares through him and he turn towards Allura who, in the presence of others, has schooled her features back into a polite calm. 

“Hunk is a valuable operative and has run missions similar to this,” she says evenly. “He is an asset.”

Lance whips his head back to Hunk. “You’ve run missions like this?” he asks. “I thought you were just flying around cooking for diplomats! Why didn’t you tell me?”

Hunk shrugs again. “It didn't come up,” he says humbly. “Also, most of it was highly classified.”

“To classified for a paladin of Voltron?”

“As hard as it may be for you to believe, you don’t need to know absolutely everything,” Allura snaps, losing her cool slightly. Lance would almost feel bad for her if he wasn’t so pissed off—he can tell he’s giving her a headache. “Now, can we move this along? We have a rescue mission to plan.” She motions towards the table. 

“Nothing would please me more than to sit through another meeting, Princess.” Lance says acidly. She elbows him on his way past her, in a distinctly unprofessional move. “That’s Queen to you,” she says, and sweeps past him to sit at the head of the table.

He frowns, but drops into a seat next to Hunk. Logically, he knows she’s only thinking of Keith’s best interests, of getting him out alive. And yeah, he concedes the point that if he’s too erratic, or breaks down in the middle of the mission, that the probability of his survival—of all of their’s—goes down significantly. But this is _Keith_. He’s not going to have a breakdown—it’s too important. They have a mission, and he’ll do anything to see it to success. He just needs to be allowed a part in it.

At the head of the table, Allura clears her throat. “Alright,” she says. “Thank you all for being here. Now, a quick debrief for those who don't know—Riga managed to convince the Laurentians to hold a good-faith dinner party, to smooth over the tensions that have arisen between them and the rest of the Alliance.” She gestures towards a diminutive, purple-skinned woman, who nods politely back. “We will use this dinner as an excuse to land on Laurent, carrying a diplomatic team as well as a few others who will stay disguised and hidden. The diplomatic team will participate in the events as expected, and also serve as a distraction for the others. The others will attempt to mount a rescue during the course of the dinner, which will take many of the Laurentian security personnel away from their normal posts in order to provide a safe environment for the event.

“Based on the intel we have, Keith is being held in the same large government building hosting the dinner. It’s difficult to believe he would be anywhere else, as that is the main public building on Laurent that remains standing after the war, and the only place they have facilities sufficient for holding and interrogating prisoners. We will have one person running tech—they will hack into the surveillance systems using technology Pidge developed”—here, she nods towards Pidge, who raises her fist in victory, looking supremely pleased with herself—“And then one or two of us, either dressed as Laurentian soldiers or using cloaking technology, will get Keith. Then, the diplomatic delegation will cause a distraction—suggestions on what that might be are welcome—and everyone will get back to the ship as quickly as possible so we can get out and mount an attack on Ranveig before they are able to catch on to what is happening. Our fighters will be waiting just outside the system, ready to wormhole in at our word and attack Ostia. Clear?”

Most around the table nod their heads, but Lance sees several gaping holes in the plan. The first being—

“What about the others? We know they’ve taken other prisoners, Krolia and other Blade members. We’re just leaving them?”

“It is…” Allura pauses, swallows. “Unlikely the other Blade members are still alive. According to our intel, they were quickly disposed of after being interrogated. They were not as valuable as Keith is as a bargaining chip.”

“Krolia is, though. What about her?”

“We still don’t know for sure she’s on Laurent,” Hunk interjects. “Like, obviously, all signs point to that, but we should probably focus our efforts on going after what we know is true—that Keith’s there, and alive, right?”

Allura nods, determined. “Correct. We must keep our eyes on the ultimate goal.”

“Okay, sure. Then—the so-called ‘distraction’—what kind of distraction are we thinking of? Like, faking illness distraction or set off a bomb distraction?”

“Both,” Pidge supplies unhelpfully. “Why not?”

Matt nods and the two share a look of pure conspiracy. “Might as well be prepared for anything we need to do. Have multiple backup plans. Illness, bombs, fake military attacks, another missing person, a terrorist attack mounted by the rebels themselves—hey, that would really throw them off!”

“We could have fun with this,” Pidge says, eyes gleaming.

“Alright,” Shiro says. “Let’s not get too far ahead of ourselves. Allura, who makes up which team? What is Laurent expecting from the diplomatic side of things?”

“It should not even be overtly diplomatic—the purpose of the dinner is to reaffirm friendship. I will go, of course, and I think Romelle as my consort will sell that image—though she is a valuable advisor to me when it comes to Altea, she rarely takes part in Alliance work, and thus is a relative unknown. Bringing her will cement our presence there as friendly and relaxed, rather than coming across as trying to get something out of it diplomatically. Shiro, you should also attend. Having you there as Keith’s surrogate brother, willing to make amends, will shift any suspicion that we might be there looking for him. They believe we've accepted he was lost in the crash, and we don't need them to think anything different. And Riga,” she nods at the purple alien. “You work the closest with the Laurentians on Alliance matters, and always have. I believe you need to be there as well, if that is alright?”

Riga inclines her head again, remaining silent. Shiro nods, too. “Sounds solid. Your reasoning makes sense to me. Anyone have objections to that team? Others involved with Alliance, but not on the council, will likely be in attendance as well, which means we don't need to send a huge delegation.”

No one speaks up. 

“Alright,” Allura says. Only because Lance knows her so well does he detect the hint of relief in her voice—she must have expected more push back. “Now, onto the retrieval team. Hunk, I asked you here for a reason. Are you willing to take part?”

Hunk nods his head solemnly. “Of course. I think we need to make use of Pidge’s cloaking tech, though. I don’t think I could pass as Laurentian no matter what we do.”

Allura nods thoughtfully. “Yes, I’ve been leaning towards that myself.”

“I’ll go,” Pidge says. “Obviously. The tech’s all mine. I know how to work with it. I should be there.”

“Woah there,” Matt interrupts. “I don’t know if that's a good idea.”

Pidge turns her megawatt glare on him. “Don’t start that. I’m eighteen now, you and Mom can’t tell me what to do anymore. I’m here, aren’t I? And it’s _my tech_ and _my friend_!”

Matt holds up his hands in a placating gesture. “Woah, I’m not saying you can’t go—you can ignore me if you want. Just—listen, if you’re compromised during the mission, the whole thing’ll be fucked. There’s a reason the tech people are usually kept out of the heat of the battle—below the surface, they’re running everything. You going is dangerous for you _and_ the mission. Plus, they’ll be expecting you. They know one of Keith’s best friends is the genius Green paladin, they know you've been digging into all their tech and records for the last few months to figure out what happened, and they'll expect you to come for him, especially after you tore the universe apart looking for me. It’s better if you don’t.”

Pidge glares at him, but doesn’t mount an argument. “And if I don’t go, who’s looking through the cameras and scrambling codes and initiating cloaking and turning off security surveillance?”

“You still are,” Matt says. “Through me. I go, we’re connected via comm link and you have eyes on everything I do. I just act on what you tell me. That way, if I’m compromised, you’re still out there and can direct the mission safely through another channel.”

Shiro clears his throat. “He’s right. That’s a safer way to do it. Less room for error. You’ll be fine over comms.”

"That assumes I'm just fine with you throwing yourself into danger in my place, which I'm  _not_. As you just reminded us, I tore the universe apart to find you, I'm not okay with you just waltzing into danger-"

"Katie. I was a rebel leader. I fought through the whole war and ran more missions similar to this one than I can count. I can handle myself, especially with this team for backup. We're all going to get out of there. I'm just pointing out, if you're compromised or even taken out of commission briefly, the whole mission is screwed. If I am, you just switch to another comm link. It's about the strategy."

Pidge is clearly fuming, but she sits back and doesn’t argue further. 

Allura clasps her hands together and beams. “Well then, that is settled! Our teams are set. We can move forward this evening, after some final prep work.”

“Wait a second,” Lance protests again, regretting it immediately after he speaks. “Matt and Hunk are the entire undercover team? That’s not enough!”

“More might draw attention we cannot afford,” Riga finally speaks up to voice her opinion on the matter.

“Sure,” Lance replies. “Maybe it would. But it’s better than only having two people in there. Two people might be enough for intel missions, but for rescues, or jailbreaks?—there was usually a role for each of us. At the very least, we need one more person. Someone to distract guards if we need it, someone to defend Hunk and Keith if they get out and Hunk has to carry him, someone to take over the tech stuff for Pidge if Matt is compromised. Come on, we can’t just send in two people and wish them good luck!”

Allura stares at him, stone cold. “I assume you’re suggesting yourself as the third person?”

To be honest, Lance hadn’t thought about the specific person, but now that he does….

“Actually, yeah. I said before I wanted to go, and _I_ could pass myself off as a Laurentian, especially if I’m wearing a soldier’s uniform. Plus, no matter what else has changed, I can still shoot a gun.”

“So can Hunk. So can Matt.”

“But they’ll both be doing other things. We need more defense, and we need someone else in case things go differently than we think they will!”

Kolivan finally speaks up. “It is true, strategically speaking, that having a third may be wise.”

“I think we should bring Lance,” Shiro says again. “Like he said, he’ll find a way to go no matter what, even unauthorized. He’d be useful to have there, I think.”

Lance nods at him, then turns back to Allura. “Come on, Allura. Just let me come.”

Allura closes her eyes briefly, features settling into a mask somewhere between calm and resigned. “Fine, Lance. Fine. You can come. But I expect you to follow every order _immediately_ , even if you disagree with it. No improvising, no changing plans. Got it?”

“I’m not Keith,” Lance says. “I can follow orders.”

She eyes him for a long moment, mouth opening to reply, but seems to rethink it. She gives him a stiff nod and turns away, and talk turns to what sort of distraction they should plan for and how to hack security cameras. He sits back in his chair and tunes it out to some extent—he won’t be directly involved with anything they’re talking through now. Relief courses through him. Shiro was right, even if he wasn’t allowed to come officially he would have tailed them to Laurent. Better to throw himself into action blindly than sit around waiting for something to happen.

That, he realizes, is very Keith-like of him. He must be rubbing off.

Keith. He’s close enough to reach now, even though Laurent is physically light years away. They have a plan. It’s going to work—he refuses to think any different. It won’t be long before he has Keith next to him again, and when that happens nothing in the world is going to stop Lance from taking him into his arms and kissing the life out of him. Even if Keith pushes him away, Lance can’t think of another way to impart his feelings over the last few months. Words can’t describe the depth of fear, of anger, of denial. Words can’t describe how much he’s missed him.

“Lance!”

He jerks out of his reverie. Everyone around the table is staring at him.

“You sure you’re alright, buddy?” Hunk mutters.

“Uh—yeah. I’m good. What?”

“I asked if you thought you could work within an evacuation time of ten dobashes if things go badly. We think that’s all we could buy us to get us all out if we need to.”

“Oh—yeah. Yeah, we worked with much less during the war. Uh—what’s the distraction?”

She glares at him. “You weren't listening?”

“Just…lay it out for me one more time?”

Shiro interjects. “Ideally, the distraction is the dinner. Everything goes smoothly on your end, we schmooze on our end, you make it back to the ship before the end of the event and we leave after it’s over, no one the wiser. If things don’t go that well, we’ll have a few options—setting off an alarm elsewhere in the building or the signal for an oncoming attack, setting off a small bomb…”

“A _small bomb_?”

Pidge grins, wicked. “A _small_ bomb.”

“Really small,” Hunk corroborates. “Just enough for a distraction.”

“A _minor_ distraction.”

“A minor distraction we will hopefully have no need for,” Allura interjects. “Are we all agreed on this course of action?”

Heads around the table nod in unison.

“Good,” Allura says. “You’re all dismissed until 17:00. Attend to your relative duties and we will leave then, bar any complications.”

A scrape of chairs and everyone stands, milling about. Lance has barely processed what’s happened, still shocked that he managed to get his way, he’s actually a part of the mission, he doesn’t have to sneak to Keith on his own. Lance wanders listlessly away from the meeting room until he comes upon a small corner room he always used to like—a few comfortable chairs and a view over the lake. He used to escape here frequently after stressful meetings, or when the homesickness hit particularly hard. He doesn’t have anything to prepare so he just stands against the wall, staring out the window, mind strangely blank given the circumstances.

An indeterminate amount of time later, there’s a light knock onto the door and Pidge slides in, chewing on her lip.

“Hey, Pidgeon,” he says quietly. 

“Hey,” she says. “Hey, I wish I could go with you.”

“I wish you could, too. But Matt was right. You’re more important than any of us when it comes to running this mission.”

“I _know_ that, okay? _Still_.”

“I know.”

She crosses the room in a few quick steps and slams into him, wrapping her arms around his middle and squeezing tightly. “Bring him home, okay?”

“Yeah,” he says, squeezing back. “We will. I promise.” There’s no other option.

The door swings open again. Hunk, Allura, and Shiro file in and see them hugging. Pidge clears her throat and pulls back slightly, still standing close enough for her shoulder to brush against him. They all gather by the window, staring out at the still waters of the lake, at the traffic over the bridge. Heaviness sits in the air, persistent and grim. 

Allura clears her throat and pulls something from her pocket. It takes a moment for Lance to realize what it is, it’s so strange to see it in someone else’s hand—Keith’s knife, his Blade. It looks small and ineffective in Allura’s hands. The purple glow of the insignia is dim, but still there. She flips it around in her hand and holds out out, hilt first, to Lance.

“What?” he asks, not making a move to take it.

“You should take it,” she says. “Give it back to him when you find him. He might need a weapon, but it also might give him strength just to have it back. Their life forces are tied to their blades.”

Lance reaches out a shaking hand and takes it. He’s never touched Keith’s blade before, and it seems almost wrong to do so. It’s so much a part of him, almost an extension of his own body. He stares at the dim, persistent glow. It’s hard to tell if it indicate’s Keith’s life or Krolia’s, but he’ll choose to believe it means they’re both alive, waiting for them to come.

“Thanks,” he says, voice breaking embarrassingly. “I’ll, uh…I’ll keep it safe for him. Until we find him.”

Allura smiles at him tremulously, her previous frustration with him seemingly forgotten. “I know you will.”

Shiro sighs and knocks his head against the glass of the window. “I said the paladin bond was gone,” he says as Lance tucks the knife away into his own pocket. “But I don’t think it really is. I feel him. It’s like an open wound between us all, him missing. It’s like he’s too far to reach, but the bond is stretching to its limits to find him.”

Allura nods. “I thought the bond would disappear if we lost the lions, but it seems to be deeper than that. It was easy to ignore, when I was so sure he was dead, but now…he is calling out to us.”

Lance thinks of his dream, of reaching and reaching for Keith as he draws farther and farther away. “I knew he wasn’t dead,” he croaks. “I knew.”

“I know,” Shiro says. “I just wish we’d listened—“

“We found him now,” Lance interrupts. Falling into regrets won’t help anything now. “We just have to get him.”

“We will,” Hunk says, determined, and draws in close, pulling them together in a hug. He’s always been good at that, at pulling them together. They stand tangled together for a few moments, heartbeats aligning, matching Keith’s heartbeat from far across the universe. For a moment, Lance closes his eyes and breathes himself into quiet; sheltered from the fear and sorrow of the last few months, the isolation, the nightmares. For a moment, he breathes in his family and allows himself to believe it will all be okay.

* * *

They board the shuttle that will take them to Laurent late that evening, after Hunk and Pidge spend several manic hours working on it. Pidge’s eyes gleam as she explains the specialized hidden weapons, the cloaking tech, and the small space hidden behind the wall paneling where Lance, Hunk, and Matt can hide and remain undetected by even the most advanced surveillance and searches. 

Then she climbs out of the shuttle and leaves the seven of them—four ex-paladins, the diplomat Riga, Matt, and Romelle—standing in the shuttle, overwhelmed by what lies ahead. 

“The young one has quite a mind,” Riga remarks after a moment of silence.

“You have no idea,” Shiro mumbles, and takes the pilot seat. “Ready to go?”

Allura snaps out of her reverie and back into action. “Yes. Everyone, take your seats. Try to get some rest while we travel. We will not have any time for that once we land.”

Something painful twitches in Lance’s chest at the sight of Pidge standing in the hangar, watching them leave. Is it really possible to pull this off without her there? The bond, faint and fragile as it is, shivers with discomfort at the thought of leaving her behind. She checks in on the comms as soon as they break through Altea’s atmosphere, though, and he knows she’ll still be with them the whole way.

A few hours into their flight, Allura hands out communication devices specifically designed by Pidge to keep them connected to each other and her. Allura, Romelle, and Lance each get delicate earrings, similar to Allura’s old ones, which turn on and change frequencies at the press of a small, bright gem. Riga has a necklace with similar technology. Matt and Hunk both have a near-invisible earpiece and Matt slides in a pair of contact lenses that will show Pidge everything he sees. Shiro gets a small device that embeds itself directly into the palm of his Altean hand. They test them out for awhile, chattering amongst themselves and Pidge, until both she and Allura are satisfied they work well.

There's nothing much to do for the remainder of the flight. Allura and Romelle murmur to each other in the front, curled close in a way that makes Lance’s heart twist. Shiro and Matt laugh about something in the cockpit. Hunk tries to engage Lance in some sort of conversation, but he can’t focus on it, too caught up in what’s to come.

Eventually, he falls into a doze against Hunk’s shoulder. Keith walks ahead of him and he tries to follow, mute as always. This time, though, his feet aren’t stuck to the earth, and he runs and runs, trying to catch up and slowly succeeding, though his feet don’t seem to cover the same distance in his long strides as Keith’s do in his lazy stroll. He’s right behind him, reaching out, when Keith dissolves in front of him and he finds his feet buried in sand; palm trees and the warmth of the sun on his bare back, waves bearing him away.

He wakes to the sensation of descent, still mildly panic-inducing, and Hunk gently shaking his shoulder. “We’re almost there, bud,” Hunk says quietly. “About to enter the atmosphere.”

Lance shakes the sleep away and looks out the shuttle window. Laurent stretches below. He’s seen pictures of it, of course, but it really is beautiful in person—vast, silvery ocean dotted with tiny coppery islands of land. Ostia, their golden moon with its hidden caves, hovers above, cast half in the planet’s shadow. Volsci, a smaller, sapphire-tinted moon, glints in the distance. 

They shudder through the atmosphere and Allura opens a comm link, clearing them for landing in the capital. The land grows closer and closer, a city taking shape from above, most of it made up of destroyed buildings, burnt, skeletal, plants, and ruined roads. Only one section still stands; tall, proud buildings made of some metallic material and covered in windows. This area of the city appears to be bustling—streets heavy with traffic and clogged with pedestrians. Most surviving Laurentians live in this tiny pocket, crushed together as they attempt to rebuild what they lost. Lance can understand why they’re desperate.

“Alright,” Allura says, waving them out of their seats. “Hunk, Matt, Lance—get behind the paneling and _stay silent_ —the cloaking tech should do its job as long as you don’t move or make too much noise. Remember, they'll probably search the ship, so be careful and stay hidden for awhile after we land. The rest of you, get ready to put on a show of friendship and forgiveness.”

Below them, the roof of the tallest building slides away, revealing a docking bay full of other ships. Shiro slows, banks, and eases the shuttle down to settle in an open spot. Lance, Hunk, and Matt step behind the paneling. Before sealing it behind them, Allura fixes them all with a steely gaze.

“This is it,” she says. “We have one shot. Let’s bring him home.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whoops this took forever to finish and it's all talking! Plot is hard and life is kicking my ass. Have no fear, though, most of the next chapter is already written. 
> 
> Follow me on [Tumblr!](https://prevalent-masters.tumblr.com)


	7. Found

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for this chapter: this is where the "graphic descriptions of violence" come in. There's quite a high body count in this chapter, as well as some detailed description of wounds and injuries. Please read with that in mind.

His heartbeat thunders in his ears. In the dim silence behind the paneling of the shuttle, he’s never been more aware of the blood pumping through his body—heart to fingers, toes to heart, crashing through him. He’s holding himself so still he can feel the imperceptible shake of his limbs with each beat.

If he tilts his head sideways he can see the dark shape of Hunk, hear his quiet, quick breathing. Hunk doesn’t like enclosed spaces. If he really strains his ears, he can hear the slight whistle as Matt exhales—deviated septum. 

Other than those sounds, the dim shape of Hunk, he’s deaf and blind. 

They’ve been standing here for nearly an hour now, per Allura’s orders, waiting for someone to search the ship. It has to happen. The Laurentians would be fools to not search every craft coming in or going out of their atmosphere.

They’re taking their time, though.

He sighs and shifts, legs cramping. He wants to say something, but Allura warned them to stay quiet. He’s not about to fuck up this mission before it can even begin.

Hunk doesn’t seem to have similar concerns. He shifts loudly next to Lance and whispers, “So how long do we give them before we assume they’re not searching it?”

“Shhh!” Hisses Matt.

“Longer than this,” Lance whispers. “A lot of ships are coming in. They’re probably going to search them all.”

Hunk sighs and settles back into silence. Lance’s heart pounds its way on. It’s difficult to keep track of the time as it slides away, and he finds himself counting his own heartbeats into the thousands before losing track and starting again.

A _slam_ shakes the ship and Hunk’s quick intake of air and stiffening of posture kick him out of his reverie. Footsteps echo into the ship, accompanied by voices.

“Which is this?” The voice is loud, harsh, notably lacking the Laurentian accent. 

“The Altean Queen and her entourage. Supposedly the Atlas Captain is here.”

A scoff, then a loud slam on the paneling right in front of Lance. “Scum.”

Clanking and thumps from the other side of the ship. They’re rifling through cabinets, opening drawers. Another loud slam echoes, like they threw something heavy to the ground. “They’ll get what’s coming to them. We just have to be patient.”

“The Atlas Captain—isn’t that the halfbreed’s brother? Should we be concerned they might…try something?”

Another loud slam, footsteps echoing back to their side of the ship. They’re standing right in front of the paneling, now. “No,” the other says dismissively. “They’ve bought the peacemaking gamble. Besides, that’s why we’re moving them. Even if they try something, they’ll be off-planet by the time anyone gets a chance.”

Lance exchanges a panicked look with Hunk, the dim light glinting off the whites of his eyes. A muffled curse comes from Matt’s direction. 

“Right. We’ll be able to wash our hands of them soon, anyway. Boss’ll get rid of him as soon as the Alliance attacks.”

“We can only hope,” the other grunts, sounding annoyed, like Keith’s life and death are just mild inconveniences in his day. Lance’s hands clench into fists. “Anyway, ship’s clear. No heat signatures I can detect. We’ll confiscate their emergency pack until they leave—could be accessed as weapons. Let’s move on.”

Lance is panicking. From the sounds of it, they’re moving Keith, and others, completely off-planet, and soon. He’s not sure on the timeline, but it’s probably going to be before the dinner starts. He turns to Hunk in panic. “We need to move now,” he hisses.

Hunk’s eyes widen. “And do what?”

Lance gestures towards the wall. “Get their uniforms! Go now!”

“I don’t think—“

“Pidge says Lance is right,” Matt whispers. “She’s got eyes through the security cameras. Those are two Galra in our ship, and they’re preparing some transport pods to leave the planet in another area of the building right now. Those are probably meant for Keith and any other prisoners. We need to move.”

The footsteps leaving the ship pause. “Do you hear something?”

Hunk heaves out a sigh. “Okay, fine. Go!”

Lance tightens his hand around his gun and pushes the button to slide the panel back. The three of them tumble out in front of two shocked-looking Galra dressed in Laurentian guard uniforms. One opens his mouth to yell, but Lance shoots first. He goes down, and the other turns to run. Matt lunges forward with his staff before he can take two steps.

“Now would be a good time to start scrambling security cameras, Pidge,” Matt hisses, then turns to them. “Turn your comms on now, to Pidge’s frequency.” He nudges the Galran Lance shot with his foot. “This one’s dead. I only knocked that one out.”

“We should probably try to use minimal deadly force,” Hunk whispers, looking queasily at the body. “Leaving a trail of bodies won’t help us get through this unnoticed.”

“I didn’t have a lot of time to think it through, Hunk!” Lance hisses, a bit queasy himself at how easy it was to pull the trigger after so long out of practice. “He was about to give us away!”

“Not the time to argue morals!” Matt says. “You two, take the uniforms. I’ll stay on the ship and try to figure out where Keith is. You two should get to where the transport pods are, see if you can intercept them if they’re already moving.”

_“I have the building schematics in front of me,”_ Pidge’s voice comes tinny over their comms. _“I’m just trying to figure out where the pods those guys were talking about are. There’s only one docking bay and hangar marked on my map, and it’s where you are.”_

“They must have a secret one,” Matt mumbles. “Or they added one since Ranveig moved into town.”

“Um,” Hunk says, holding up one of the uniforms he’s stripped off the dead Galran. “I mentioned before that I don’t think I can pass myself off as Laurentian, even if we have that weird paint stuff for our skin. How exactly are we planning on doing this? Maybe I should stay on the ship?”

Matt looks him up and down. “The helmet covers most of your face. You can pass as Galra. We just need to make your hands and neck purple.”

Lance pulls on the other uniform. It’s about three sizes too big for him. “We don’t look…inconspicuous. Maybe we should tell the others what’s going on.”

_“No,”_ Pidge says. He can hear frantic typing on her end of the comms. _“Telling them now will make Allura panic. We need to hold off. Our best defense is them acting as normal as possible. I’m going to tell Iverson and the Blade that it seems like Ranveig is expecting that attack, though_.”

“When do we tell them, then?” Lance demands. “They need to be ready in case we need to pull a distraction and get out of here!”

“ _And if Keith is already off-planet, we need to come up with an entirely different plan. We’ll make sure he’s still here, and then tell him the timeline has moved up slightly.”_

Matt shoves a pot of gold-tinted makeup into Lance’s hands. “Get yourself disguised,” he orders. “I’ll work on Hunk. Allura was right, we really should have used Alteans for this.”

Lance smears the paint onto his face, neck, and hands and when he looks in the tiny mirror in the head his skin shines a dark copper. He shakes some powder into his hair and combs it through with his fingers, tinting it silvery. The only thing out of place is his eyes, still as dark blue as ever, but he hopes in the shadow of the helmet no one will notice that inconsistency. He slides the helmet back on. He’d fool himself.

Back in the main room, Hunk’s now an ugly purple color. He’s staring at himself in the metal wall paneling doubtfully. “I don’t know,” he's saying. “I don’t think I look Galran.”

“You don’t,” Lance says. “You might be able to pass as half.”

“Is that good enough?”

“ _Yes!”_ Pidge says impatiently. “ _It doesn’t need to be perfect. It just needs to be enough to get you where you need to go. I figured out where the other hangar is. It’s on the ground floor of the building, in the back. They only have small transport pods stored there. It looks like three or four are positioned to leave, but I don’t see anyone there other than Laurentians and Galra. You two can get there pretty easily, if you leave the docking bay and take a service elevator down to the bottom floor. You look like two soldiers on patrol together—there are some other groups of a Laurentian and a Galran together. Take that emergency kit so it looks like your confiscating something from the ship. And Hunk, from what I’ve seen the Galra aren’t treating the Laurentians like equals…it’s more like they’re in charge and the Laurentian soldiers are following their orders. So don’t be too familiar with each other. Got it?”_

Hunk looks at Lance and gulps, then nods. “I think so.”

“Yeah,” Lance replies, heartbeat picking back up. He lets his fingers slide over the handle of his gun on the side of his belt, and the hilt of Keith’s blade hidden in his pocket. “Ready.”

_“Okay,”_ Pidge says. _“I’m going to scramble security cameras as you go, so they don’t suspect anything going wrong. So follow my directions exactly, so you don’t get spotted._ ”

“Okay,” Lance says, as Hunk picks up the emergency kit. 

“ _Matt_ ,” Pidge says. “ _You can work on setting up the first distraction while they get to the other hangar. We might need that sooner rather than later. And keep an eye on the one you knocked out. You might be able to get some answers out of him if he wakes up._ ”

“Right,” Matt says, and turns to rifle through the bag he’d brought.

“I still don’t get what the distraction actually is,” Hunk says as they drag the bodies of the Galra into the space they’d hidden in. 

“You don’t need to,” Matt says. “We’ve got it taken care of.”

“That doesn’t make me feel better.”

“ _Go!”_ Pidge orders impatiently. 

“Okay, okay,” Hunk says. “Lance, you first.”

“You’re supposed to be the one in charge. _You_ first.”

Hunk sighs again and leaves the shuttle, Lance trailing in his wake. They both keep their heads down, avoiding eye contact with any of the other soldiers walking around. There are a lot of Galra here. It’s unsettling. It reminds Lance of the war, of sneaking onto enemy ships, of working with Lotor. 

He suppresses a shudder. Puts his head down. Walks.

“ _Okay_ ,” Pidge says. “ _When you leave the room, turn left. Go all the way down the hallway until you get to the smooth wall with no doors. If you wave your hand in front of it, the elevator doors will open. Get on the elevator and ride it all the way to the bottom. I think the bottom floor is where the guard headquarters are, too, so you shouldn’t look too out of place heading there._ ”

“Roger that,” Hunk mutters as they pass a group of Galra soldiers headed towards the docking bay. A few give them a second glance and Hunk turns his face away from them, back towards Lance. “Keep up!” he snaps in a growl, trying to sound Galran, and Lance picks up his pace. The Galra pay them no more mind. They hit the end of the hallway. Hunk waves his arm and an arrow blinks into view, pointing down. Hunk turns back to look at Lance, questioning, and Lance just shrugs. “Press it?” he asks quietly.

“ _Press it,”_ Pidge confirms.

Hunk does. A loud beep echoes through the hallway, making Lance jump. God, he’s on edge. 

Doors shimmer into existence after a few moments and slide open. Hunk edges his way in, apprehensive. Lance follows. The elevator isn’t small, but it still feels wrong to be in such an enclosed space in a situation like this. If they get caught in here, it’ll be game over pretty quickly.

“All the way down?” Hunk asks.

“ _Yep,”_ Pidge confirms. _“Floor…zero. The basement.”_

Hunk presses the button.  They ride in silence, down, down, too afraid of the door opening to speak with each other.

At the eleventh floor, it does. 

Soldiers crowd in, all of them Laurentian this time. There are at least eight of them, crushed around someone trapped in their midst. Purple skin flashes through, but it’s not a soldier. It’s a woman, dressed in a tattered grey uniform, hands shackled in front of her.

It’s Krolia.

Hunk lets out a soft, strangled gasp next to him and Lance steps on his foot so hard he gasps again. One of the soldiers turns to glare at them suspiciously, then stiffens as soon as he sees Hunk.

“I’m sorry, sir,” he says in that lilting accent. Hunk shifts, clears his throat, and growls. “You’re running late. Those pods need to leave soon."

The Laurentian visibly pales. “Our apologies, sir. We are heading there now.”

“Obviously,” Hunk says rudely. “I’ll accompany you to the pod to ensure the prisoner is secured.”

“Y-yes, sir.”

The Laurentian turns away from Hunk as soon as he can, gaze fixed on the ground. He seems almost...afraid of him.

Krolia glances their way, but her gaze slides off them like water, no recognition sparking in her tired eyes. Lance can’t tell if it’s because they’re well disguised, or if she’s just out of it.  If they fooled the Laurentian soldiers, though, maybe the disguises are better than he thought.

They hit floor zero. The door slides open. The hallways are crawling with soldiers and Galra and Lance lowers his head again, privately thinking that there’s no way they’re going to get through this undetected, and also wondering what the hell Hunk’s plan is.

He asks him as much, in a hissed whisper.

“We get on the ship with her,” Hunk hisses back. “That’s as far as I’ve gotten.”

“ _I have no ideas,”_ Pidge crackles through the comms. “ _This is not an ideal situation_.”

Lance falls behind Hunk and the other soldiers slightly. “Are there cameras in the pods? Can any surveillance see what’s going on in them?”

“ _I don’t know_ ,” Pidge says. “ _Not that I can tell, but there must be something. Give me a second_.”

The group of soldiers shove Krolia through a heavy door into a smaller, cramped hangar crowded with small transport pods. The ceiling is shockingly low for a place that’s storing space craft, and the exit looks like a garage door on the far end of the room. It definitely wasn’t built to be a hangar. Hunk shoots him a look.

“This is weird,” he whispers.

“Totally,” Lance agrees.

There’s bustling around several of the pods—it looks like a few are being loaded up with supplies, and others are simply standing open. The soldiers herd Krolia towards one of those, and Hunk and Lance hurry to follow. There are a lot more Galra down here than there were upstairs, which makes Hunk’s hasty disguise that much more dubious. They crowd in close to the soldiers escorting Krolia and Lance hopes no one looks too hard. The uniforms are right, at least, and Hunk’s fits him well, even if Lance’s gapes in places it shouldn’t.

They march up into the pod without anyone stopping them. A Galran sits in the pilot seat, tapping away at controls. She turns as they all enter, frowns, snaps, “You’re late."

The same soldier casts his eyes to the ground. “Apologies, Captain.”

“Secure the prisoner,” she orders. “Then get out of my sight. I’ll take it from here.”

“Yes, Captain.”

Hunk and Lance lurk in the doorway as the two of the soldiers press Krolia down to sit and shackle her, ankle and wrist, to the floor. The head soldier checks off something with the pilot, and then they start to file out.

“Pidge,” Lance hisses. “Can they see in the pods?”

“ _There aren’t any cameras,”_ she says. “ _But they can probably hear. What exactly are you planning?”_

“Can you just…interfere with that, maybe?”

“ _What are you planning?”_

The last soldier passing them frowns at Lance. “Who are you talking to? Are you even supposed to be here?”

“Oh.” Lance says dumbly. “Er. Kronk, here. Captain. Captain Kronk.” He jerks his thumb in Hunk’s direction.

The soldier’s eyes narrow. His hand strays towards the gun at his hip.

Hunk doesn’t give him a chance to get far. His own gun is pulled and firing before the soldier’s hand even closes around the handle. 

_“Kronk_?” he hisses at Lance, as the pilot whirls around and flies out of her seat, alarmed. She gets one look at the slumped form of the soldier and the gun in Hunk’s hand and immediately draws her own weapon, turning back to the console to push a button, probably to alert everyone in the vicinity and on Ostia that she’s got two badly disguised spies on her ship, trying to liberate her prisoner.

Lance shoots her before she can push it, before she can make a sound. She slumps down in her seat, blood running from a neat hole in her forehead.

“What happened to not leaving a trail of bodies?” he asks Hunk. “We probably could have done that without shooting two people.”

“You shot her,” Hunk says mildly, hurrying over to the console, stepping gingerly around the pilot’s body. “Get Krolia. I’m going to figure out if this thing has an autopilot setting. We can still send it to Ostia, it just won’t have Krolia in it.”

Lance hurries over to Krolia, who’s staring at them with confusion, like she can’t figure out why a Laurentian and a Galran just shot a Laurentian and a Galran. He crouches down and examines her cuffs. Magcuffs, like on the castle, no locking mechanism, nothing to break. He tugs at one fruitlessly. “That’s going to alert them to what’s going on pretty quickly, don’t you think?”

“It’ll give us about two hours to get Keith and get out,” Hunk replies absentmindedly, poking at controls. At those words, Krolia finally speaks.

“Keith?” she asks, voice raw from disuse, or maybe screaming. Lance doesn’t want to think too much about it. 

“Hunk, these are magcuffs. I don’t know how to get them off.”

“ _Did you two just shoot two people_?” Pidge squawks over the comms.

“ _You shot two more people_?” Matt demands.

“You know where Keith is?” Krolia asks. “He’s alive?”

Hunk crouches down next to Lance. “Okay, _I’ll_ deal with this, _you_ , get that uniform off the pilot. And we didn’t exactly have a choice. Pidge, tell me you have the code to get these cuffs off.”

“ _Yeah, yeah_.” Pidge mumbles. “ _You are planning on letting the rest of them know what’s going on now, right? They need to know we’re suddenly working with a two hour time limit, and also that they’re all about to die because that is an_ impossible task _, Hunk!”_

_“_ We’ll tell them,” Hunk says. “And no, it’s not.”

“It kind of is,” Lance says, stripping the body of the pilot of its pants and feeling vaguely bad about it. He tosses them in Hunk’s direction and starts in on the stupidly complicated buttons on the jacket. Whatever happened to good old flight suits?

“Keith?” Krolia asks again.

“Oh,” Hunk says, and takes of his helmet. “Uh…I’m not Keith, but we are gonna get him out of here, too.”

Krolia narrows her eyes and looks at him hard, like she’s trying to place him. Then, her eyes widen. “ _Hunk_?”

“Yep. Oh, there it is. Gonna have to leave them on for the time being, though. Thanks, Pidge. You can walk, right?”

“We just saw her walk all the way here, Hunk,” Lance says, returning to their side with the jacket and boots of the unfortunate pilot. 

Krolia stares at him, rubbing at the cuffs still locked around her wrists. “Lance? Hunk and Lance? What are you two doing here?”

“Mounting a rescue attempt,” Lance says. “And we should really hurry, because Hunk just put us on a severe timeline.”

Hunk lets out a frustrated gust of air. “This is the only way we’re not going to get caught _right this second,_ okay? They have tracking on these pods. They’re gonna know if we just shoot it off into space. We just need to get Krolia back to our ship and then we need to move quick to get Keith.”

“If they haven’t already moved him,” Lance says darkly.

“They told me he was dead,” Krolia says. “They told me they killed him. A long time ago.”

The familiar flutter of panic starts again in Lance’s belly, doubt creeping back in.

“We’ve heard differently from several sources,” Hunk says calmly, holding out a hand to help Krolia stand. His steadiness soothes Lance’s doubts. Hunk wasn’t necessarily always the _calmest_ , back during the war or even before, but he’s always been that—steady. Soothing. He can tell that Hunk’s had some recent practice with this type of mission. He’s already got them much farther than Lance would have gotten alone.

And he’s right. Keith’s not dead.

He knows it.

Krolia stares at them and shakes her head, like she’s not convinced, but she allows Hunk to help her stand, swaying slightly on her feet as Lance sticks the guard’s helmet on her head. The pilot wasn’t wearing one, and this one is slightly mismatched to her uniform. He can only hope no one will notice. Hunk darts over to the control panel, hits one more button, and propels Krolia out the door. “Takeoff in one dobash,” he says, and Lance hustles after them. The room still bustles with activity, but thankfully most of the guards that accompanied Krolia onto the ship seem to have dispersed. There’s no group of Laurentians waiting for their slow comrade.

Across the room, a Galran yells at a cowering Laurentian, not a soldier or a guard, Lance guesses, based on the lack of uniform. He waves a gun in her face and she flinches hard, against the wall. The Galran smacks her across the face with the gun and she crumples to the floor as the Galran walks away, others passing by the whole time, completely unfazed.

“What was that?” Lance breathes to Hunk.

He just shakes his head, but Krolia whispers from between them, “Ranveig tricked them.”

“Aren’t they working with him?” Lance whispers back, and Krolia shakes her head and opens her mouth to say more, but Hunk shoots a warning look back at them and shakes his own head. “When we get back to the ship,” he says. “Lance, stop talking. Fall back behind us.”

Behind them, the pod takes off and flies through the small doors, out of the building. Two hours. Lance feels his heart kick back up to an urgent thrum. He does as he’s told and they make it out of the room, back to the elevator, all the way back up to the top floor. No one’s in the long hallway that leads to the docking bay. They start down it. Hunk has graduated from “walking fast” to “speed walking”.

“You look suspicious,” Lance hisses at him. He slows down, but seems reluctant about it.

Around the corner. Through the docking bay doors. A few soldiers mill about inside, but no one looks at them twice. “Slow _down,”_ Lance tells Hunk and he does, readily this time, matches his pace to the easy stroll of other soldiers, looking down at communicators, hauling around confiscated items, gathered in small groups, talking to each other. Almost everyone in here now is Laurentian, and Hunk and Krolia get a few frightened glances before the Laurentians duck their heads away, clearly desperate to avoid interaction.

The clear fear helps them out, at least. They make it back to the ship with no questions at all, and Matt jumps to his feet when he sees them.

“She thinks she found Keith,” is the first thing he says, then wilts slightly against the wall. “Krolia. Thank god. We didn’t know if you would be here still.”

“I nearly wasn’t,” she says, but gives him the ghost of a smile before sinking down to the floor to lean against the wall tiredly. Hunk rips the helmet off his head and rubs his face. “She thinks she found him? Where is he? We have,” he looks down at his watch. “One hour and forty nine minutes to get him and get out.”

“Not possible,” Matt mutters, like he’s talking to himself.

“Possible,” Hunk insists. “If we go _now_. Where is he?”

Pidge crackles to life on the comms. “ _The eleventh floor seems to be the only place they have facilities to hold prisoners. I haven’t been able to get into the cameras in the rooms, though I’m sure they’re there, but based on heat signatures, most of the rooms are empty. Room 18A and room 26B both have heat signatures, but the heat signature coming from room 18A seems much too large to be Keith’s. So my guess is 26B, unless they’ve already moved him. I haven’t seen any groups of soldiers moving him through the hallways or on the elevator, though.”_

“Krolia,” Lance says, and she snaps to attention, seemingly lost in some sort of reverie. “Were you held on the eleventh floor?”

She thinks for a moment, eyes faraway, then nods. 

“Pidge says there looks like there are only two other occupied cells there. Where are the other prisoners? The other Blades they captured?”

Krolia just shakes her head. 

“Krolia,” Matt says seriously. “What is going _on_ here? Our intel indicated that Laurent is working with Ranveig’s forces, that Ranveig is bankrolling the rebels, that Ranveig’s been directing the capture of Blades to use for intel and hostages. It doesn’t seem like the Laurentians are necessarily…happy about this, though.”

“He tricked them,” Krolia says again, putting her head in her hands. “I’m sorry…they were giving me something…some drug. I’m…confused. But I think…they told me they had other Blade members. Said they’d captured dozens, and killed them all after interrogating them, like they were interrogating me. They said they would kill me, too. They…they killed Keith. They showed me his body.”

Lance heart rate picks up again. “You saw it?”

“I…I thought I did…”

“Ranveig,” Matt prompts gently. “We need to know what’s going on.”

“Shouldn’t we get Keith first?” Hunk says, eyes twitching nervously back to his watch. 

“We need to know what we’re getting into before we dive in. I want to know what’s going on with these Laurentians.”

“Ranveig orchestrated a meeting with them,” Krolia says slowly. “He fled to this sector, after the Kral Zera, was hiding out in that asteroid field for decaphoebs with some other allies—Commander Gnov, Captain Nerok. The Empire thought they were dead, and they stayed hidden after it splintered and fell. Biding their time.” She closes her eyes again and leans her head back against the wall. Matt hands her a water pouch and she accepts it gratefully, drinking deeply.

“Sorry,” Matt says. “Should have given you that at the beginning. Do you need food? Medical attention of any kind?”

She shakes her head. “More water.”

He hands her another pouch. She drains half of it, then sighs and continues. “They kept an eye on the Alliance as it grew after the war. Ranveig is no fool, and he had eyes everywhere, people willing to work for him in exchange for money, or protection, or promised favors. I don’t know if he ever followed through on any of it. He can be very convincing, very sincere, when he wants to be. I ran a mission on his base a long time ago, undercover. I remember thinking he could be kind.” 

She shudders and shakes her head. “It was him, the whole time. His people whispered conspiracies, sewed dissonance and dissatisfaction. He knew Laurent and its people were susceptible—they were so ruined by the war, so desperate for help and yet distrusting. They were unsatisfied with the Alliance and how it was handling things, but had so little power they couldn’t change much. He preyed on that. Recruited many Laurentians to the rebels. It was brilliant, really. It made it seem obvious, to anyone who wanted to look into it, that much of the rebel activity could be traced back here. He was the shadow behind it all.”

She drinks the rest of her water. “He organized a meeting with the Laurentians. Offered aid in the form of money, soldiers, protection. The second they agreed to the meeting, he landed here and brought his soldiers. It was a coup, really, though he left the leaders in power. They’re going along with all of it, though. I don’t know if he made them promises, or if they’re just afraid. The citizens are all terrified. It’s like the Empire took them over, again.”

“So…they’re not acting of their own volition?” Hunk asks.

Krolia shakes her head. “I don’t think so. Not most of them, at least.”

“God,” Hunk says, and starts chewing on his fingernails. “This is bad. I think we should tell Allura and Shiro now.”

“Yeah,” Matt says, “yeah, that’s probably a good idea. I’ll—“

The comms crackle to life before he can finish his sentence, but this time it’s Allura’s voice, not Pidge’s.

“ _How are you?”_ She asks, voice staticky, like the connection is bad. “ _I think it’s safe for you to leave the hiding spot, now. The dinner starts in thirty dobashes, and I think it would be wise to wait until a varga or so has passed before leaving the ship, just so we make sure everyone is properly distracted—“_

“Um,” Matt says. “Yeah. Slight change of plans. We have Krolia, and we need to get Keith now. Hunk kind of gave us a shorter timeline to work with.”

“Again,” Hunk says. “I didn’t exactly _have a choice_."

“ _Wait,”_ Shiro’s voice joins Allura’s on the comms. “ _What_?”

“We, uh. Overheard the soldiers who were searching the ship. They were planning to move Keith and Krolia off-planet before the dinner starts. Just in case anyone was going to try anything. So we started things a little early.”

“ _You_ what _?”_ Allura says, sounding furious. “ _Lance, I told you, if you weren’t going to follow orders you were not authorized to be on this mission—_ “

“We didn't have a choice, Allura!” Hunk interrupts. “They said they were going to move them, and they did. We barely got to Krolia in time, and we need to get Keith _now_. And we’re probably going to need the bigger distraction.”

“ _You three need to wait—“_ Allura starts, but she’s interrupted quickly by Shiro.

“ _No, you three need to go get Keith!_ ” The edge of panic in his voice is palpable. “ _Is Krolia alright_?”

Lance looks at her, slumped against the wall, head in her hands. “She’s…alive. Seems mostly unhurt.”

_“Good,”_ relief seeps into Shiro’s voice. _“Allura, they’re right. They need to go now, or the whole mission’s blown and we’re stuck here. It could kill us all if we wait._ ”

Allura sighs deeply, air crackling over the comms. “ _Alright. Alright, I understand. Do we know where he is_?”

“Pidge thinks she found the cell they’re holding him in,” Matt says. “We just need to get there before soldiers move him. Or at least intercept them, like they did with Krolia.”

Allura sighs again. “ _We are having the mission debrief of your lives after this, and I expect some truly brilliant explanations from all of you. Fine. Go. Keep us updated. Matt, can you set up the distractions?_ ”

Matt grins. “Already set up one. I’ll be thrilled to set up the other.”

“Also,” Hunk says. “Krolia has some information. The Laurentians might not necessarily be working with Ranveig by choice. We’ll explain more later. Just…if it ends in a fight, know they’re not the real enemy here.”

“ _What?”_ Allura asks again. “ _But our intel…”_

“Is wrong,” Hunk says. “Like I said, we’ll explain later. We need to move.”

“ _Alright_. _Good luck_.”

“Thanks.”

The comm clicks off and they’re left staring at each other.

“So,” Lance says. “Room 26B. Level eleven. Let’s go?”

Matt nods. “You and Hunk get to Keith. I’m going to go set up the other part of the distraction. Krolia, there’s a spot behind the paneling here you can hide in. It hides heat signatures in case anyone else comes onto the ship to search it.” He slides back the paneling and gestures at the dark space within it, the slumped form of the other Galran soldier, tied hand and foot, inside. Krolia looks apprehensive, but gets to her feet and slides in.

“Does the distraction you’re setting up include placing bombs?” Hunk asks suspiciously. 

Matt smirks. “A lady never tells.” He reaches up and clicks his comm back on. “Pidge? Are we clear to move?”

She sounds frustrated when she replies. “ _The only way to cover all of you is to shut down the security system. I can’t scramble the cameras in three different places at once without it being too suspicious. I’ll fake a power outage, but that’s going to be suspicious, too. Stay in your disguises, and I won’t do it until I have to_.”

Hunk sighs and puts his helmet back on. Matt turns to Krolia. “Trade clothes?”

She nods. Matt starts unbuttoning his pants. “You guys, go. You need more time than I do.”

Lance takes a deep breath, closes his eyes, tries to ground himself. Hunk’s hand settles heavy on his shoulder.

“It’s okay,” he says. “We’ll get him. It’ll all be over soon.”

“Yeah,” Lance says, trying to believe it. “I know.”

“Ready?” 

“Ready.”

“Good luck!” Matt calls after them, and they leave the ship, cross back through the docking bay, down the hall, around the corner, to the elevator. No one’s riding in it. They get in. Hunk pushes the button for floor eleven. Lance feels like he’s floating, like he barely exists.

“Breathe,” Hunk advises.

“I am breathing.”

“Breathe slower. You sound like you’re about to hyperventilate.”

“I’m _not_.”

Hunk just raises his eyebrows, doesn’t comment.

Floor eleven. The doors slide open. The corridor is long, white, and deserted. Eerily silent. The door to the left of the elevator reads 1A.

_“It’s down the hall and around the corner_ ,” Pidge says.

1B. 1C. 2A. 2B. 2C. The A rooms and C rooms are on the left. The Bs are on the right. The hallway ends, turns, 9C to the left. As they turn the corner, a door at the end of the hallway opens.

“ _Shit,”_ Pidge says. “ _Galra_.”

The tramp of footsteps sounds down the corridor. More than one. At least four. Hunk keeps walking, resolute. The Galra behind them outpace them, catching up quickly.

“Hey!” A rough voice calls out. “Stop!”

Hunk stops, swings around, swears. Lance’s heart beats in his ears. 17C. The hall stretches ahead of them. Keith’s at the end of it.

“What are you two doing up here? Authorized personnel only.”

“We were told to come collect the prisoner,” Hunk says evenly. The Galra draw up next to them and halt. Five of them, massive and dripping with weapons. One carries what looks like a muzzle. Lance’s stomach twists with disgust. 

The Galran in front eyes them. “You two? Collecting the _highly dangerous, highly valuable_ prisoner? I don’t think so. That's our job.”

“Just following orders,” Hunk says.

The Galran’s hand twitches towards his gun, rests on it. 

“ _Pidge,”_ Lance hisses.

“You’re not Galran,” the soldier says, and pulls his gun out.

The lights go out with a soft _pop_. Emergency strips along the floor flicker to life, washing everything in sickly red. The Galran looks around himself furiously, another yelps in the sudden dimness. All of them draw their guns.

Lance draws his own. 

The Galran raises his and shoots at Hunk. No more questions needed, apparently. Hunk dives out of the way and fumbles for his own gun, returning fire. One of the Galra turns to run back towards the elevator, probably to sound the alarm. Lance shoots him in the back before he can make it five feet, then ducks three shots aimed for his head. In front of him, Hunk yelps.

“Hunk!”

“Just a graze!” A burst of gunfire comes from his direction, and a Galran goes down right in front of Lance. He trips over him and rolls, the shot that would have hit him directly in the sternum whizzing over his head. He twists and aims, nearly blind.  He might be good with a gun, but close combat in the dark doesn’t really foster his specific skill set.

“Pidge,” he hisses when he has air to breathe. “Was that you? The lights?”

“ _Yes,”_ she says shortly. “ _You better hurry.”_

“Right—“ he starts, but a Galran lands on him, crushingly heavy, before he can finish his sentence. 

“Lance!” Hunk shouts, then grunts in pain. Gunfire. The Galran on top of him leers, pushes a gun under his chin hard enough to impair his breathing, forcing his head back. 

“I recognize you,” the Galran growls. “ _Paladin_. I’ve been waiting to kill one of you for a long time.”

His finger twitches on the trigger. Lance writhes under him, trying to pull up his hand, gripping his gun, but it’s trapped on the floor, crushed by the Galran’s knee. His other hand is free, scrabbling desperately for something, anything—

The Galran grins again, adjusts the gun minutely. Lance can barely breathe for the pressure.

His hand closes around something in his pocket.

“This is for everyone you’ve ever killed,” the Galran says, then slumps forward, eyes widening in shock. The gun slips off Lance’s throat, blasting a hole in the floor right next to his neck. He feels it burning, hot like the blood coating his hand, where Keith’s blade is buried in the Galran’s chest.

The Galran chokes, rolls off him. Lance pushes him the rest of the way off and scrambles to his knees, gasping for air, fingers clutched tight around Keith’s knife. It didn’t transform for him, of course, but it’s deadly enough as it is.

He looks around. Three Galra down. Two left. Hunk’s injured one, about to finish him off. His back is turned. The last Galran struggles to his feet and aims a gun at his back.

Lance locks numb fingers around his own gun and takes the shot down the hall. The Galran falls without a noise, a perfect shot. 

Lance can still barely breathe, throat aching with every inhale.

Hunk dispatches the final Galran with a slam to the forehead and turns, panting, eyes wide. A trail of blood runs down his arm and some of the purple paint on his face has smeared off.

“Shit,” he says. “This was not good.”

“I don’t think any got away,” Lance rasps. “If their comms aren’t working, they couldn’t sound an alarm.”

“Still,” Hunk says. “We just made a ton of noise, and the hallway’s full of bodies. Our disguises are shot—I can feel my paint running, your hair’s brown again. People are probably coming. I need to—“

He’s cut off by the slam of a door down the hall, confused voices. It only sounds like a few people, but they’re coming right towards them.

Hunk sets his jaw, eyes steely. “Lance. Get Keith. I’m going to distract them.”

“What? No! We shouldn’t split up—“

“If I can get them to come after me, if they think I was the only one up here, that gives you two an actual chance to get out. There isn’t _time_ , Lance. _Do it_.”

Before Lance can get another word out, Hunk’s running down the hallway towards the voices. He rounds the corner and surprised shouts ring out, accompanied by gunshots. 

“Shit,” Lance says to himself. “ _Fuck_.”

Another beep rings through the hall and his comms crackle on. “ _I don’t know what’s going on,”_ Pidge says. “ _But the doors are all unlocked. Get him and_ get out _. We’re running out of time.”_

“Shit,” he says again. “Shit, okay.” He tries the door right next to him. 20A. It swings open at a touch, revealing a small, cold room, empty. Shouting still echoes from down the hall. He can hear Hunk, and a Laurentian accent. A door slams shut, and there’s sudden silence.

“Okay,” he says. “Okay.” One hand tight around his gun, the other still locked around Keith’s blade, he runs down the hall. 

Room 21A. 21C. 22A. 23B. 24B. 25B.

Room 26B. Keith’s either in that room, or he’s already dead. The door is plain, the same off-white as the walls and floors and ceilings on this level of the building, tinted sickly red by the emergency lights. They don’t look like the doors to cells. 

He pauses in front of it. He’s not sure why. The fear of opening the door to nothing, no Keith, not even a sign of him, rises thick in his throat.

He edges forward, listens. No sound. Just more silence, eerie and dead.

He touches the door. Pushes slightly. It swings open silently. He nudges it the rest of the way with his gun and peers in. It’s dark, difficult to make out the shadows after the dull red glow in the hallway, but after a moment his vision resolves and—

He sees him. Huddled in the back corner, resting against the wall, an arm up to shield his face from the dim light spilling in.

“Keith?”

He hears a slight intake of breath, but Keith doesn’t look up. Lowering the gun, Lance creeps forward. As his eyes adjust, Keith emerges out of the gloom. Legs drawn up close to his chest, face still turned away, a cuff tight around the wrist Lance can see, skin puffy and red around it. He’s still in his Blade uniform, but it’s in tatters now; one of the sleeves missing, long tears through the torso. And his hair. Chopped off, uneven and messy, nearly shaved on the side facing Lance, the longest strands barely brushing his chin. The silver hoop he’d had in his ear is gone, ripped out, the lobe left jagged and bloody.

“Keith,” he breathes, and his knees buckle in a massive rush of relief, sending him to the ground. Through all this, there was a part of him that didn’t believe that he was still alive, that thought he’d never see him again. And now Keith’s here in front of him, a miracle. Pulling off his helmet, he reaches out a hand but stops just short of touching him. Keith flinches away, trembling, his shaking visible to the eye, his breaths coming in short pants. He doesn’t know what to say, so he says the stupidest thing imaginable. “Are you okay?”

The answer, clearly, is no. Lance doesn’t need a verbal confirmation of that, which is good, because he doesn’t seem likely to get it. Keith still hasn’t lowered his hand, face turned stubbornly away, tucked into the wall behind him.

“It’s me, Keith. It’s Lance.”

No response, though his arm lowers slightly. That could just be from exhaustion—from the shaking, it looks like he can barely hold it up.

“Keith?”

“Hello, Lance.” His voice is a barely-there rasp, dull and emotionless. “I didn’t think they gave me that today.”

“Gave you what?”

“Whatever it is that makes me hallucinate.” He says it so matter-of-factly, he could have been talking about the weather, or the economics system of some far-flung moon, or Shiro’s habit of leaving the milk out on the counter. Lance’s heart sinks right past his stomach and settles somewhere down by the soles of his feet. “Keith, no. This isn’t a hallucination. I’m here, and Allura, and Shiro. We found your mom, too.”

Keith finally lowers his arm and glares at him. From this angle, Lance only sees one eye, the edge of his mouth, the line of his nose, pale skin illuminated eerily by the light from the hallway. He looks wrecked. Cheek sunken, the scruffy growth of a beard on his jaw, dark rings under his eye, grime and blood caked on his skin. “You look like them. If you weren’t a hallucination you’d pick a more convincing line.” His gaze turns slightly thoughtful. “Though you're not usually crying.”

Lance swipes at his eyes and shuffles closer on his knees, heart squeezing desperate in his chest. The smell hits him then—an unwashed body, stale sweat, the distinctive sourness of wounds left untreated. “I’m real, I swear. Let me touch you?”

Keith’s eye narrows and he lifts his shoulder in a slight shrug. “Hallucinations can’t touch.”

Lance abandons his gun entirely and reaches out a shaking hand. Keith tracks his movements like a hawk, eye narrowed. He cups his hand around Keith’s jaw and gently turns his head to see the rest of his face. His skin is cool—too cool, because Lance knows Keith usually runs hot; they’ve spent enough nights side by side on a bed for him to know that much—and slightly damp with sweat. Keith’s visible eye widens slightly and he lets Lance maneuver him.

“Your eye,” Lance gasps when the light finally falls across Keith’s face. An ugly gash runs down his face from above his eyebrow to his jawline, crossing the scar left by Shiro’s hand so long ago. It goes right over his eye, and it looks deep, the skin around it purpled, Keith’s eye forced shut by the swelling. “Can you open it?”

Keith stares at him. “Hallucinations can’t touch,” he repeats.

Lance ignores him, runs his hands over Keith’s head, the short hair strange against his fingers; down his neck, feeling for other injuries. “Where else are you hurt? Can you stand?”

Keith raises a shaking hand and locks his fingers around Lance’s wrist. His grip is stronger than Lance would expect. “Lance?”

“Yeah, Keith, it’s me. Look, we don’t exactly have a ton of time here, they’re probably going to figure out we broke in pretty soon, or that Hunk just sent a bunch of soldiers on a wild goose chase, and even if they don’t they’re going to come get you sooner or later, when the people who were supposed to don’t show up…”

Keith looks confused, overwhelmed, gaze darting between Lance and the open door behind him, the gun on the ground. “I—you—you came?” He sounds completely baffled.

“Of course we came, you idiot. What did you expect, we’d just let you rot here? I’m just sorry it took us so long.” He runs a hand down Keith’s arm, feels the unnatural line of his shoulder. “Is your shoulder dislocated?”

“How did you even know…?”

“You missed Christmas. They said you crashed your ship, like that was believable."

“I missed Christmas…?”

“Keith.” Lance settles his hands around Keith’s face and forces him to look straight into his eyes. For a moment, he loses himself in drinking in the sight of him, the lines of his face so familiar, if gaunt; the spark in his eye of _Keith_ shining through the confusion and pain. The solidness of him there between the palms of Lance’s hands. He would stay here forever, just holding his face, breathing his air, looking in his eyes.

He shakes himself. He can’t get too relaxed, let down his guard. They still have a long way to go before they’re safe. “I know this is a lot. I know you’re probably in pain, and in shock, and I’m sorry. But I need you to tell me if you can move so we can get you out of here, okay?”

Keith frowns at him. His lips are terribly dry and split, blood staining down his chin. “I’m not in shock.”

“Okay,” Lance says. “Arguing with me is a great first step.” He tries to pull Keith out of his curled position and stops when he winces.

“My ribs, on the left side,” Keith croaks. “Cracked, I think, not shattered. My shoulder might be dislocated; I tried to reset it but I don’t think I did it right. Might have a slight concussion, might be the drugs...I don’t remember…don’t know if I can walk.”

Lance glances at his legs, runs a hand down them as he forces Keith to straighten them out. There doesn’t seem to be anything majorly wrong, all the bones are in place, at least, though he can see a few lacerations through the tears in his suit. Keith winces as Lance’s hands drift around his ankles. “My feet,” he chokes out. “They burned my feet.”

Lance’s hands freeze. “They what?”

“They burned them,” Keith says. “After I tried to escape. So I couldn’t try again.”

“Oh, fuck,” Lance says, and Keith has the audacity to chuckle breathlessly, leaning his head against the wall. Lance tries to compose himself. They can deal with that later. They have healing pods, he reminds himself, some of the best medical care in the universe. They just have to get out of here. That’s the only job right now.

“It’s okay,” he says. “I’ll just carry you.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. You can’t carry me and shoot at the same time.”

“What, you think I’m just going to leave you?”

Keith furrows his brows. “I still think you’re a hallucination.”

“Even if I am, just go along with it, okay? Help me out here.”

Keith coughs, wet and ugly sounding. “Can’t you call Hunk? Shiro?”

“They’re pretty busy being the distraction. It’s just you and me, buddy. Come on, I thought we made a good team?”

Keith scoffs, but doesn’t respond. He looks exhausted, still leaned up against the wall and looking up at him through a lidded eye. 

“Come on, man, stay with me,” Lance says, moving to crouch by his head again. He remembers the luxite knife, discarded somewhere in his desperation to touch Keith, to feel him. His hand scrabbles around the floor, trying to find it, before his fingers close around the hilt, still sticky with blood. He turns it around and hands it to Keith, hilt first.“Brought you something you lost. You should keep better track of it.”

Keith’s eyes widen and he reaches for the blade, closing his hand around it and drawing it close to his face to inspect it. It must meet with his approval, because he seems to relax slightly, his shaking eases, and he looks back at Lance with slightly more fire in his eye. “Maybe you’re not a hallucination.”

“I keep telling you, man.”

Keith’s grip on the blade turns white-knuckled. “Thank you, Lance.”

“Anytime. Now, ready to get out of here?”

Keith grits his teeth and nods. Lance doesn’t waste another moment, turning his back to him and pulling his arms around his neck. Keith winces sharply as the movement jars his shoulder, but he doesn’t drop the blade. “Think you can hang on to me?”

Keith nods against the back of his neck. Lance moves slowly, shifting Keith a little at a time in an attempt to cause as little pain as possible, though he can tell Keith is holding back groans. Eventually, he manages to stand, forearms looped under Keith’s thighs, gun gripped in one hand, Keith’s arms tight around his neck. 

“Okay,” he says. “Jailbreak time. Here goes nothing.”

Keith tenses up right as they reach the doorway and Lance stops, mindful of every change in his breathing. “What?”

Keith shakes his head. “Nothing,” he whispers.

“Keith. What?”

Keith draws in a sharp breath. “The cuffs. They’ll go off if I cross the threshold.”

“Go off?”

“Electricity. Happened once when they took me out and forgot to deactivate them. And when I tried to run.”

“Shit,” Lance yelps, and makes to set Keith down, but Keith’s arms tighten almost painfully around his neck. “No!” he says.

“No, what? We have to get them off!”

Keith shakes his head again. “They won’t come off easily. We don’t have enough time. We’d need a key, or a code, or something. It’s okay.”

“It is not okay, are you kidding me?” Lance might be panicking a little. The last thing they need right now is for Keith to get electrocuted on top of everything else, but he’s not sure he has time to give Pidge the details and wait for her to figure out how to turn them off.

“It’ll only last a second. Just do it, Lance. I want to leave.”

“Keith…”

“Lance. Please. I’ll be fine. You said yourself we don’t have enough time.” His voice cracks, and that nearly breaks Lance. Because if they get caught here, before they even leave the room, he’ll never forgive himself.

“Okay,” he whispers. “I’m so sorry.”

“Don’t apologize,” Keith grits out. “Just go.”

Lance steps across the doorway. 

Immediately, Keith tenses, muscles locked and trembling where he’s pressed against Lance’s back. He cries out, loud and echoing down the hall, and the luxite blade slips out of his clawed fingers. Lance takes a hand off his leg to lunge and catch it and Keith nearly falls off, though Lance manages to keep him pinned to his back by leaning them both against the wall. Keith convulses and Lance worries for a moment that it won’t let up, but almost as quickly as it starts Keith goes limp against him, head slipping onto his shoulder, panting.

“Keith!” Lance shouts, probably louder than necessary, but he’s panicking, okay? He runs a hand up and down Keith’s thigh, the only place he can easily reach. “Keith, Keith, are you okay?”

“Fine,” Keith grits out, jaw clenched. His fingers are still shaking, arms jerking slightly from aftershocks, maybe. “Give me back my knife.”

“Can you even hold it?”

“ _Give it to me_.”

Lance sighs and hands it back to him. Keith latches onto it with a death grip. “Don’t accidentally stab me with it.”

Keith growls slightly, but doesn’t seem capable of more speech. Lance readjusts his grip and steps away from the wall. “I’m going to start running now. Hold on."

Keith nods once, clammy forehead tucked against Lance’s neck, and Lance takes off, as fast as he can with the awkward burden without making too much noise. Though if the guards weren’t tipped off by Keith’s scream and Lance’s shouts, they’re the worst guards in the universe. He has to tiptoe through the bodies littered throughout the hallway, and he hears Keith’s small gasp of surprise when he sees them.

It’s lucky Keith’s so light. Not so lucky, since it probably means they were starving him, but lucky for now. Or maybe Lance’s upper body strength really has improved with farming.

No, it’s probably the starvation.

Keith grunts as Lance rounds the corner and backpedals, jerking them up against a wall as a patrol of soldiers runs by at the end of the other hallway, past the elevator. Lance breathes out a curse and Keith laughs breathlessly. “I think they figured it out.”

“Quiet,” Lance hisses, trying to think of what to do. He peeks around the corner. Now there are two soldiers standing guard at the end of the hallway by the elevator, blocking their way out. He closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. Time to call for backup.

He taps the earring. “Shiro?” He whispers, “Allura?”

A crackle of static, then Shiro’s low voice, muffled by plenty of background noise. The dinner must have just started. “Lance? What’s going on?”

“I need backup. We were right on the location, but we’re trapped here now. They caught on pretty quick.”

“We? Does that mean…”

“Yeah, Shiro, I’ve got him,” Lance confirms, and Shiro lets out a long sigh. “Is he…how—”

“Not great. And I don’t know where Hunk is, or what his status is. I’ve just got static on his comm. I’m serious Shiro, we need—"

Keith’s tightened arms and sudden shout of “Lance!” cuts him off right before something—a staff—slams into his stomach, pain lancing through his entire body. He collapses to his hands and knees, choking. Keith falls against the wall, shouting again, this time in pain. Another hit comes, this time to his back, and Lance screams, body convulsing as his mind races. Electricity. Shiro shouts in his ear but he can’t respond. He feels the gun kicked out of his hand and then fingers in his hair, pulling his head up. A soldier stands in front of him, gun in his face. The one holding his head up keeps the staff pointed at his neck, end crackling with electricity. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees another, arm locked around Keith’s neck, gun to his head. Keith struggles weakly, but Lance can see his knees buckling, the pain in his face whenever his feet brush the ground.

“Leave him alone!” Lance growls.

“How sweet,” the soldier drawls, shoving the gun in his face. Beneath his helmet, Lance sees dark purple skin. He’s Galran. “The innocent little Earthling thought he would trick us. Tell me, is the rest of your delegation in on this, too? Do I need to call the guards to arrest them at dinner? We wanted to maintain our illusion for a bit longer, but perhaps it would be worth it, to capture the Queen and her Admiral.”

Lance wilts a little in relief, though the threat is clear. At least this means this particular group somehow hasn’t found out about Hunk, Matt, and Krolia yet. “No,” he chokes out, the sharp tugging on his scalp bringing tears to his eyes, “no, it was just me, I swear.”

Two more soldiers rush around the corner, guns raised. The ones standing guard by the elevator.

“Idiots,” the Galran in front of Lance hisses at them. “They ran right past you.”

“We didn’t hear anything,” one of the new soldiers says, aiming her gun at Keith. Her companion trains his gun on Lance. “Can we kill the halfbreed now?” he asks. He’s Galran, too. “He must have orchestrated this. More trouble than he’s worth.”

“No!” Snaps the soldier in front of Lance. He clearly outranks the others. “Ranveig still needs him. And he has accomplices now. This pretty boy planned a rescue.” He leers at Lance. “We need them both alive for questioning.”

“He was talking to someone,” the soldier behind him says. “When we came up.”

“Just me,” Keith wheezes.

“Shut up, scum,” the soldier snaps, and the staff at Lance’s neck disappears as he swings it into Keith’s stomach. Keith yelps, crumples in on himself, shakes with tremors; and Lance rears up, fighting to get to him. “Stop!” he shouts, yanking his head out of the soldier’s grip, oblivious to the pain of his hair ripping out. Then the staff smashes into the base of his neck and everything shorts out for a moment, breath stolen away, vision whiting out. When he can hear and see again, the Galran is speaking into a comm. 

Fuck. They’re screwed. Part of him can’t believe they’d have the balls to arrest the Queen of Altea, but then again, the jig’s pretty much up. Maybe they’ll throw caution to the wind and just do it, as the Galran suggested. The Laurentians—or the Galra controlling them—have the upper hand, now. He struggles, weakly, but there’s really nothing he can do. The gun is too far away. Hopefully, Shiro heard this whole thing through the comm and will act faster than the guards this soldier is in the middle of contacting.

From behind him, there’s the sound of a small struggle, a sickening squelching noise, and a loud thump. The gun in front of Lance’s face wavers, the Galran distracted from his call by something. The soldier with her gun trained on Keith shouts and moves forward, firing, but Keith barrels into her and she goes down in an arc of golden blood. She, at least, was Laurentian. 

Everything explodes into chaos. The soldier in front of Lance drops his comm and brings up his gun—and then, quite suddenly, he doesn’t have a head and Keith’s standing in front of him, panting, kicking Lance’s gun towards him as he raises his blade, full size now and dripping with blood—Galran, ugly and viscous. His eyes glow bright gold and Lance can see the edges of fangs as he snarls. He moves impossibly quickly, ducking some shots from the other soldier and swinging at the one with the staff, but he manages to parry, pushing Keith back until he stumbles against the wall. Lance’s brain takes a moment—too long—to catch up with events, but he lunges for the gun and manages to twist on the ground just in time to shoot the soldier in the leg. He stumbles, and the staff that was about to smash into Keith’s head smashes into his injured shoulder instead. Keith screams and crumples to the ground, sword falling from his hand. Something hot sears through Lance’s shoulder and he twists to shoots at the other soldier, who’s firing wildly, like he’s never shot anything before. He goes down with a yelp, gun clattering away, and Lance scrambles to his knees and shoots the other one twice in the back of the head before he can get up. A coward’s shot. Panting, he stumbles over to the last guard, wheezing on the floor with a sucking chest wound and points the gun at his forehead.

“Please,” the soldier shakes his head weakly, hand scrabbling at the golden blood running down his uniform. “Don’t—”

He’s Laurentian. Taken advantage of.

Lance shoots him before he can finish the sentence.

“Lance!” Shiro barks into his comm. “What’s going on? What’s your status?”

He stumbles over to Keith, still slumped on the ground. His right arm feels heavy and useless, numb beneath the searing pain in his shoulder. He definitely got shot—he doesn’t want to examine it too closely because he can’t freak out right now. His legs still work. That’s all that matters.

“Change of plans,” he pants, crouching down by Keith. He’s unconscious. Lance taps at his cheek, willing him to wake up, just stay awake a little longer. A sheet of fresh blood covers his face from a raw line across his temple. The graze of a bullet that just barely missed. “We’re going straight for the docking bay right now, and we could probably use a little more distraction. I’m talking a set off a bomb and then get to the ship kind of distraction.”

“There are a lot of soldiers coming into this dining room right now, Lance,” Shiro says tersely. He can hear Allura muttering to him in the background.

“Then get out now, Shiro. I’m serious. We’re out of time.” He hauls Keith up, ignoring the pain in his arm, and drapes him over his shoulder, again perversely grateful for how light he’s become. The minute he touches the luxite blade it shrinks back into a dagger and he tucks it into his belt, gripping the gun with his useless right hand and wrapping his good arm around Keith’s hips. “Do whatever you have to do, but be at the hangars in the next ten minutes or we’re all dead. If we’re not there, leave without us.”

Shiro sputters. “Lance—what—no!”

“We’re both injured,” Lance says, grunting as he stands up with Keith’s weight over his shoulder. He starts to run, lopsided and slow, leaving the five bodies sprawled behind them. At least there aren’t any guards in the next hallway. “We’re going to be moving slow. We’re screwed, Shiro, this is do-or-die now, and I’d rather Allura and you not die here.”

“Shut up, Lance,” Shiro says angrily, and he can hear increased commotion on his end, raised voices and footsteps and even a few shouts. Hopefully that’s their distraction.

“Just be at the ship,” Lance pants. “And if your distraction is good enough, we’ll be there too. Figure something out.”

He switches comm channels. “Pidge. Does the elevator still work?”

“ _Negative_.” Her voice is staticky and barely comprehensible. “ _I’m having trouble staying in their servers. They’ve figured out they’ve been hacked. I can’t see anything anymore, except for what Matt’s seeing.”_

“Fuck,” Lance says, and switches direction away from the elevators. There have to be some stairs somewhere in this building. “Any ideas for getting out of here?”

“ _There are stairs on the other end of the floor. Kind of far away. No idea if you’ve got any company. Sorry.”_

“It’s okay. Thanks, Pidgeon.” He turns off the comm. He wants to be able to hear any footsteps or voices headed their way, although his own footsteps and panting are so loud he probably won’t be able to hear a thing over them. But he also doesn’t want any of the others to hear them getting captured or killed.

Keith groans and shifts, pushing against Lance’s back. He’s still shaking. “Stay still!” Lance tells him, gripping him tighter. He’s relieved he’s awake, but his struggling further imbalances Lance as he tries to run. Keith lets out a choked moan that really doesn’t sound good, but if Lance puts him down to check him out now, they really will get caught. He grits his teeth. “Just hang on, Keith!”

They round another corner and Lance dives into an open doorway when he catches sight of six soldiers walking ahead of them. They’re standing in a dark storage closet, shelves of what look like toilet paper and maybe an alien version of bleach crowded in on them. He adjusts his grip on the gun, willing his fingers to work. The fire in his shoulder has subsided slightly, but he thinks that’s more to do with shock than the wound itself. His fingers are weak, but he tries to grip the gun. He sticks his head out the door and aims carefully. His hand shakes. He takes a deep breath. He can’t make these shots. Not fast enough. Not accurate enough.

A massive boom echoes through the hallways and the ground shakes. Toilet paper rains down on them and Lance watches the soldiers jump, look at each other, and take off running.

He touches a hand to the earring. “Was that the distraction?”

“Yes,” Shiro pants, clearly running. “Matt’s working on more.” It sounds like a ceiling is falling in on his end, which Lance sincerely hopes isn’t the case. “Run now, Lance! We’ll be there soon.”

Keith groans again, hands scrabbling at Lance’s back. “Lance,” he says.

“Just hang on, Keith, almost there.” He slides out from the storage closet and starts running again. He can feel Keith’s head bouncing against the small of his back, which can’t be comfortable. “Sorry.”

“Lance,” Keith says again, “Lance, please...my hands…”

“I know,” he reassures mindlessly, skidding around another corner and there—finally—a door with the telltale drawing of a staircase on it. He throws it open and starts up them, nearly overbalancing. They’re so close. So close. “I’m sorry, I know.”

“No,” Keith groans. “No...I don’t…” his shaking is getting worse, he’s writhing in Lance’s grip, Lance can barely keep a hold on him. Why is he shaking so badly?

The realization hits with a sick horror. He’s not shaking, he’s jerking around, convulsing. Like he’s still being electrocuted.

The stairs last forever. Lance barely has breath left in him, legs aching, lungs impossibly tight, but he can’t stop running. Another blast shakes the building and he trips forward, almost drops Keith, catches himself painfully on the railing just in time.

Up one more flight and finally the stairs end. He pushes open the door and they’re face to face with the docking bay doors, huge, metal, and very closed. And guarded. Lance shoots two of them before they realize they’re there, bad shots, but effective enough. He ducks back into the stairwell and slides Keith off his shoulder. He goes down bonelessly, curling in on himself, holding his arms close to his body. The cuffs on his wrists glow a sickly green in the dim light and Lance can almost see the currents of electricity running up his arms.

“Fuck,” he says, “fuck, Keith, I thought you said they’d stop!”

Keith gasps. “Lied. We had to leave. It just got worse. They figured out I was gone.”

“You idiot! You fucking idiot! How did you hold a sword like that?”

Keith looks up at him with a single golden eye, panting and shaking with pain. “You would have died,” he says simply. “I had to.”

Love rushes through Lance, as strong as waves breaking on the beach during a storm. He stares at Keith, suddenly speechless, watching him shudder and suffer in front of him, and his heart breaks.

“Fuck,” he chokes out, and ducks around the door to fire off more shots at the barrage of soldiers headed their way. “Fuck, Keith, we’re probably still gonna die right now. I’m so sorry. They shouldn’t have let me get you. Shiro wouldn’t have fucked up like this.”

Keith smiles faintly at him. “I’m glad it was you. Glad I got to see you again.”

Lance thinks he might be crying. It’s either tears or sweat running down his face. He turns and shoots again. “Sorry,” he mumbles again, like that makes anything better. “Sorry, sorry.”

And then, footsteps. From the other direction. Lance looks down the hallway and there, by some miracle, they are. Shiro, Allura, Romelle, and Matt sprinting down the hallway, guns literally blazing. Shiro swings around into the stairwell, arm blocking shots from the soldiers, and sweeps Lance away from the doorway with one brush of his arm. “Stay back!” he yells, and tosses something towards the docking bay, falling back to brace himself with his arms over his head. Lance follows suit, just in time, crouched over Keith, protecting him with his own body. Another explosion rocks the walls, so close and so loud that Lance can’t hear anything after but a loud ringing in his ears. Allura runs by, followed by Romelle. Lance straightens, ears ringing; raises his head, and sees Shiro sweeping Keith effortlessly into his arms, gesturing at Lance to follow. He pulls himself off the ground and stumbles after them, tripping over himself and chunks of wall and ceiling. The hallway is in ruins, soldiers crushed and bleeding, some still shooting at them, though Allura dispatches those quickly. At least the hangar doors are also conveniently blasted open. Something falls from the ceiling and nearly smashes him the head. Now the place really is caving in.

“Lance! Come on!” Shiro yells, sounding like he’s standing at the other end of a very long tunnel. Lance stumbles over debris and into the docking bay, trips, goes down hard. The gun flies out of his hand and he can feel the reverberation of footsteps against his cheek. He’s so tired. Hunk stands at the door of their shuttle, gun raised, mouth moving around words he can’t hear. Romelle and Allura are already on board, Matt halfway up the steps helping Shiro with Keith. He feels something whiz right by his face, a sharp line of pain on his calf, and knows _I’m going to die I’m going to die I’m going to die._

_At least Keith’s safe._

A flurry of footsteps, and someone’s standing right over him, firing a gun. He chances a glance up and sees green skirts, a sparkling necklace, purple skin. Riga, the old diplomat, turns out to be a great shot. She quickly dispatches the soldiers closest to him, drags him to his feet, and pulls him back into a run towards the ship, firing behind her as they go.

An arm grabs him and lifts him off his feet, throwing him over a broad shoulder. His face is approximately level with Shiro’s magnificent ass as the other man raises his arm to shield them against bullets and runs up the stairs and into the ship, Riga close on his heels. As soon as they cross the threshold the door starts to close and the engines whirr to full power.

“The door’s closed,” he says, but he can barely hear his voice over the ringing in his ears. Shiro slides him off his shoulder and he stumbles, panting against the wall. “The door’s closed!”

“Not for long,” Matt grins, voice barely audible. He types something into a tablet and, sure enough, the big doors sealing the roof of the building start to slide open. Beyond them, Lance can see a dark, starry sky. He slumps, boneless with relief, then jumps up almost as quickly, stumbling over to where Keith lies crumpled, Allura leaning over him. One glance confirms the cuffs are still activated.

“Matt,” he says. “Matt, his cuffs. Please, you have to get them off.” He reaches out and cups Keith’s head in his hands to stop it from rattling on the floor as he shakes. Matt crouches down next to him, takes one look at the cuffs, and swears.

“Matt, please,” Lance begs. Keith’s eye is closed, but his face is tight with pain, jaw clenched, breathing fast.

“Give me a minute, Lance,” Matt snaps, running his hands over the cuffs and typing into the tablet. “Just give me a minute.”

“They’ve been shocking him since we left the cell!”

Above them, Shiro gasps, and Allura curses softly.

Matt growls and pulls out his knife. He grabs Keith’s wrist and stabs the point of the knife into the cuff.

Keith’s eye flies open and his mouth widens in a silent scream as his body seizes up. The cuff sizzles, shooting visible sparks, then shorts out. “Sorry,” Matt rambles, “sorry, sorry, sorry. It’d take too long to figure out the code…” He grabs the other wrist and does the same to the other cuff. Keith cries out, audible this time, and when the cuff finally stops glowing he heaves, pushing himself away from Lance and throwing up, mostly on the ground, a little on Lance’s leg, nothing but clear bile. He can’t bring himself to care, stroking Keith’s filthy hair back and murmuring “it’s okay, it’s okay,” even though absolutely nothing is okay. Allura rubs Keith’s back and he falls back into Lance, landing partially in his lap and gasping for breath as he trembles. Normal trembling, now, not electrocution. He mumbles something that Lance doesn’t catch.

“What?” he leans down close to his mouth.

“You’re definitely not a hallucination,” Keith croaks in his ear. “There’s no way a hallucination would hurt this fucking bad.”

Lance lets out a breathless laugh and leans his forehead on Keith’s shoulder. 

“You’re bleeding,” Keith says after a moment and Lance pulls back a bit. Sure enough, his shoulder is leaking fresh blood to join what’s already caked over Keith’s face and neck. He reaches out in an attempt to smear it away and only makes it worse. “Sorry,” he says.

Keith rolls his eye and opens his mouth to respond but is cut off short as Krolia forces the panel open and slides to her knees next to them.

“Keith,” she says, reaching for him, hands hovering like she doesn’t know where to touch. Keith’s eye widens and he makes an aborted movement to sit up and sinks back with a groan, reaching to grip her arm. “Mom? Mom, I thought they—I thought…”

“I am so sorry,” Krolia says, gripping his hands like a lifeline. “I knew what they were doing to you and I tried to get out, to get to you, but I failed, and you...now you…” She trails off, taking in Keith’s wrecked face and shredded suit.

“I’m fine,” Keith croaks, a statement so blatantly untrue Lance wants to laugh. Instead, he gently supports Keith to sit up and tips him forward into Krolia’s arms. He slumps into her and starts to shake in earnest. Krolia tucks his head under her chin and glares at them all like they might hurt him more. Lance feels suddenly useless and empty, unsure of what to do with himself. Shiro slides between him and Keith, wrapping his arms around Keith from the back. Keith is sandwiched between his family and Lance feels suddenly guilty that he hadn’t relinquished his grip sooner. He shuffles backwards, shoulder starting to throb in earnest, until he runs into Allura, who puts a steadying arm around him.

“Are you alright?” She murmurs, tugging him close against her side. She looks half-wild, her formal wear crumpled and dirty, skirt partially torn away, her hair falling from it’s fancy updo. He sags into her side and sighs. He can’t take his eyes off of Keith, even though the only part of him visible is the back of his head, his shorn hair. 

He shakes his head, once, and feels the tears coming, feels the breathlessness. His knees buckle and he’s on the ground, Allura’s voice distant behind the ringing in his ears, breath heaving in and out. What if they hadn’t found him? What had the Galra and the Laurentians done to him? They don’t even know the extent of his injuries, what if they don’t get to help in time? What if they hadn’t gotten here in time? 

“They’re following us,” Matt’s voice makes it through the fuzz in his head. “We’re going to have to fight our way out of this one.”

“We just lost any hope for a tactical advantage attacking Ranveig,” Riga replies, sounding annoyed. “Someone needs to get through to our forces. We need to either attack now, or regroup and come up with an alternate plan.”

“Attack now!” Allura snaps over his head, going in an instant from soothing to brusque. “We still have enough forces to trap them on the moon. Tell them _now!_ ”

“Roger that,” Matt mutters. “Pidge, listen…”

He killed so many people today. The last guard’s plea runs through his mind on loop— _Please—don’t._ His twitching fingers. Lance hasn’t killed anyone in so long. He never wanted to kill anyone again. Dripping golden blood obscures his sight. It feels like it did after any battle, after they tumbled out of the lions bruised but triumphant. After he killed who knows how many with his rifle and his aim. 

His thoughts whirl down in that old familiar spiral, and he hasn’t had an attack in so long but he can’t breathe and he can’t quite remember where he is and he can’t take his eyes off Keith, Keith who’s gone limp in his mother’s arms—unconscious? Or worse?

A strong hand forces his face to turn, tears his eyes away from Keith. Allura’s blue eyes swim in his gaze. She places a hand on his chest, firm and warm, and it grounds him slightly. He tries to breathe and starts to cry instead. 

“Lance,” she says, rubbing his chest soothingly. It permeates the panic of trying to breathe and the pressure in his head from crying. “It’s alright,” she says. “It’s okay, we got him, he’ll be alright. You got him.”

“Breathe,” Hunk’s voice comes from behind him. “Buddy, breathe. In and out. Good. Okay.”

Lance struggles to follow the instructions. In and out. Slowly, sounds filter back in, the ringing in his ears fading. Allura talks softly to someone over his head. Hunk rubs his back and quietly counts breaths for him, _in 1 2 3 4 out 1 2 3 4._ Something clatters somewhere in the ship, voices murmur from elsewhere, someone groans, someone else laughs softly. They’re leaving Laurent. They rescued Keith and Krolia. The war is over. His breath hitches as his sobs slow and he lifts his head slightly from where it’s landed on Allura’s shoulder.

“Back with us?” she asks him softly. He shrugs. She squeezes his shoulder. 

“We got him. I know it was intense. He is safe now, and we’re getting out.”

A blast shakes the ship, sending him toppling into Hunk. 

“What?” he croaks.

Allura makes a face. “They’re chasing us. We’re not quite out of danger. We should be able to lose them, though.”

He wipes the tears off his face with a trembling hand. Behind him, Hunk rubs his back soothingly. The numbness of a panic attack is fading, replaced with insistent aches and pains—the wound in his shoulder the most obvious, but a sharp tenderness at the base of his neck where the staff struck him flares up as he moves his head, his ribs ache, his calf throbs, and there’s a slow headache building behind his temples. Fear creeps back in, too—they haven’t made it to safety, the entire plan of attack has been compromised, they’re going to have to fight off a fleet of Laurentian ships. They’re being shot at, he doesn’t have time to panic. Isn’t this what Allura warned about? 

He glances to the side and is vaguely alarmed that Keith’s no longer there, a small smear of blood on the metal floor where he lay. 

“Where is he?”

Hunk keeps rubbing his back. “They took him to the hold to deal with some of the injuries. We should move, too, buddy. Get that shoulder looked at.”

“Yes,” Allura frowns, shifting away slightly and prodding at the ruined fabric around Lance’s shoulder. He tenses and winces in pain. “You’re losing too much blood.”

Lance nods, too tired for words, and lets them help him to his feet. He sways from a sudden headrush once he’s fully upright and stumbles against Hunk, who holds him steady, exchanging a look with Allura over his head.

“I’m fine,” he croaks, which isn’t true, but he really needs to be. “We don’t have time for this. Have we left the atmosphere yet?”

“We’re about to,” Hunk says. “There are Galra warships waiting.”

“If we can get past them, we can make it to the checkpoint,” Matt says, striding out of the other room, blood spattered on his hands. It makes Lance want to throw up. “Hopefully by then the others will have time to attack so we can get out of here. Lance. We need to at least wrap your shoulder.”

He pushes away from Hunk and stands shakily on his own feet. “Who’s manning the guns?”

“Romelle and Riga. They’ve got it handled.”

He sways back against Hunk. He can’t help himself. “Riga. Didn’t know she could fight.”

“She’s a veteran rebel. She’s been fighting her whole life. I used to work with her. Now _come on_.”

“I’m fine,” Lance says again.

“Sure, buddy,” Hunk says, and wraps an arm around his waist. Lance appreciates that he’s letting him walk, at least, even if he’s supporting 70% of his body weight. They wobble to the hold, Allura and Matt right behind them. The ship is small, just a shuttle, the sleeping area tiny and crammed to the side of the large cargo hold. Keith’s laid out on one of the lower bunks, head pillowed in Krolia’s lap, still unconscious. Shiro kneels by his side, trying to work off his suit, though it seems nearly stuck to his skin by blood and grime. 

Hunk deposits him on the ground next to Keith’s bunk and he has to physically fight his instincts not to lay right down and pass out himself. Matt throws a roll of gauze at Hunk.

“This thing isn’t exactly well stocked,” Matt says, pulling out more gauze, a few healing pads that seal wounds and prevent infections, and a pack of butterfly bandages. “We’re not going to be able to do much for either of them until we get somewhere with a real medical set up.”

“How long is that going to take?” Shiro asks anxiously, finally giving up on the suit and reaching for the shears from the first aid kit. He starts to cut it off and winces at what he sees beneath it. “The checkpoint won’t have anything like that, just basic stuff, same as us.”

“It depends on how much we have to fight through to get out of this sector,” Allura says. “I can open a wormhole once we’re past the checkpoint.”

“Does he have that long?” Lance croaks.

Matt dismisses him with a wave of his hand. “He’s lasted this long. He can last until we get him to treatment. None of the wounds are life-threatening from what I can tell.”

Another blast rocks the ship, and Lance can hear Romelle shouting from the cockpit. Matt steadies himself against the wall, looking behind him. “Hunk, wrap him up,” he says again. “Allura, we should go help. I think that was a Galra cannon.”

Allura gives a single tight nod and they both run out of the room.

Hunk sighs and looks down at the gauze in his hands. “He’s right. Shirt off, buddy.” Lance struggles to comply, but he can barely lift his arm now and the guard uniform is heavy and complicated. Hunk ends up having to help him, cutting the sleeve off entirely. Beneath the fabric, his shoulder, neck and arm are so covered in blood it’s difficult to see where the wound is. Hunk winces at the sight. “Shiro, I don’t—”

Shiro stands from Keith’s bed and comes over, poking around the wound and making Lance groan. “Sorry,” he murmurs, as he finds the exit wound. “It went straight through. It’s not as bad as it could be. Didn’t hit any major arteries, or you’d be dead already.” He frowns, clearing away some of the blood with some damp gauze Hunk hands him. “It might have some fibers from your shirt stuck in it, though. Get some tweezers out of the kit and try to get them out.” He kicks the first aid kit their way and goes back to daubing something on Keith’s feet.

His feet. Lance doesn’t even want to see what they look like, but from the look on Shiro’s face it’s not good.

Hunk digs through the kit and unearths a pair of tweezers, a bottle of something brown and nasty looking, and another healing pad. Lance is distracted, busy staring at the slight rise and fall of Keith’s chest. He’s got several bloody wounds scattered over his ribs and pecs, perfectly round. They almost look like burns themselves. With a sick lurch of his stomach he realizes they probably are.

“How’d you get away?” he asks Hunk hazily, remembering the empty static on his comms, Hunk’s shouts.

Hunk shrugs, sticking the tweezers into Lance’s shoulder and rooting around. Lance yelps and swears.

“Sorry, this is probably going to hurt,” Hunk says belatedly, wiping more blood away from the wound. “I went down a couple floors and then locked them in a closet. Pidge took down their comms. Made it back up to the top floor using the back stairs you two came up. Got lucky, really. Ugh—shit, I can see something in here, but I can’t get to it—this is gonna hurt more.” He digs the tweezers in, twisting, and it does, but Lance feels spaced out and distant again, like he’s about to pass out, mind stuck on Keith. He tries to remember what Keith told him in the cell about his injuries.

“He might have a dislocated shoulder,” he remembers out loud. “And they were drugging him with something.”

Shiro swivels around to stare at him. His hands are stained with blood, a sight that makes Lance’s stomach turn. “What was it? Do you know?”

Lance shakes his head. “He seemed really confused when I got to him. He didn’t think I was real. He said it made him hallucinate, whatever it was.”

Krolia looks grim. “They gave it to me, too. I’m not sure what it was, but it seemed to be something they synthesized specifically for Galra. It never made me hallucinate, but it kept me weak, confused. Sometimes it knocked me out fully, depending on how much they gave me. It could have had a different effect on him, though, since he’s only half….”

Shiro moves up to Keith’s head, gently touching around his shoulders. “There’s nothing we can do about that except wait for it to get out of his system. It can’t have major lasting harm, if they gave it to you both multiple times and you’re feeling okay. We need to get him water when he wakes up, though. As much as he can handle to drink.” He presses down hard on Keith’s left shoulder and he flinches and lets out a little moan.

“Oh no,” Shiro says. “Yeah, that’s definitely dislocated. It feels really stiff, very swollen. How long…?”

“He said he tried to fix it, but he didn’t think it worked.”

“Definitely not,” Shiro says grimly. “I need to try to set it now. The longer it’s out of alignment...well, it’s already been too long.”

Keith rolls his head across Krolia’s leg and groans. Hunk winces. “Bad time to wake up, buddy.”

Shiro leans close and speaks in Keith’s ear. “Keith, I need to set your shoulder. It’s going to hurt. I’m sorry.” Keith just gives a little moan in response, which is the scariest thing about it all to Lance. Up until now, Keith’s kept talking, fighting to stay alert and communicate. Now it seems like he’s barely aware, like he’s given up.

“Hunk,” Shiro says. “I need you to come help hold him down.”

“Okay,” Hunk says, and then pours antiseptic all over Lance’s shoulder, which burns. He shouts in pain and his vision briefly whites out to the sound of Hunk’s apologies. When he comes back to himself, he’s slumped down on the ground and Hunk stands by Keith’s feet, holding his legs down and fully blocking Lance’s view of him. Except he can see the sole of one of Keith’s feet poking out from around Hunk and it looks—it looks….

Lance rolls to the side and throws up. It earns him a startled look from Hunk, who looks a little green around the gills himself, but Shiro shouts for his attention and he turns back to Keith quickly. Lance pants, shoulder throbbing. The foot doesn’t even look like it’s made of flesh anymore, burned a bright, deep red and dotted with yellowing blisters. The skin is warped and melted, fully blackened around the edges. It looks like they set his foot on fire, or pressed an iron to it and left it for minutes at a time. How he walked on it, stood on it, fought with it, is beyond Lance. How he’ll ever walk again is beyond him, too. It doesn’t seem like something a healing pod can fix, not when it’s old and already scarring in places, not when the foot itself is twisted and melted. It doesn’t seem like something anything can fix.

He can hear Keith’s breathing now over his own pants, harsh and loud. Shiro’s voice rumbles low and comforting, but Lance can hear Keith’s gasps and low noises of pain. Then, without warning, Shiro says, “Now”.

Keith screams.

Lance jumps up, nearly sliding into his own vomit, and pushes through the wall of Hunk and Shiro. Keith’s face is screwed up in a grimace and tears run from beneath his eyelids and into his hair. Krolia soothes him, gently running hands through his hair, but he’s practically vibrating with pain.

“Did you get it?” Lance demands. Shiro barely spares him a glance.

“Yes,” he says tightly. “We need to wrap it as tightly as we can. Get back, Lance. You won’t help anything if you pass out.”

“But—”

“Now,” Shiro growls. “Hunk,”

Hunk looks at him sympathetically and guides him away. He turns a more delicate shade of green at the sight of the vomit. “I’m sorry I can’t—uh, can someone clean that up before I puke, too?”

Shiro sighs. “I’ll do it. Just get his shoulder bandaged. It’s still bleeding too much.”

Hunk looks as queasy at the sight of Lance’s blood as the vomit, but he steels himself and slaps a healing patch over either side of the wound before wrapping his shoulder in gauze. By the time he’s done, Lance can barely move his arm. Hunk fashions a makeshift sling out the remains of his shirt to ensure Lance doesn’t move at all.

“That’s as good as it’s gonna get. Sorry we don’t have anything to numb the pain, just some of these weird tablets. You should take one, though, see if it helps.”

Lance accepts the pill and a water pouch from Hunk. “Thanks.”

“No problem.” Hunk looks relieved to be done with the blood. He turns back towards Keith, but blanches again at the sight of his feet and backs towards the door. “I’m gonna...um, just see if they need help up front. I’ll just...be back if you need me.”

He practically sprints out the door. Lance can’t blame him.

He pulls himself off the floor again and stumbles over to Keith. Shiro looks up from where he’s daubing ointment on the wounds on Keith’s chest. His right side is mottled with deep bruises—the broken ribs, Lance remembers—and lacerations line his stomach, straight and deliberate, fresh wounds just barely scabbing layered over the scar tissue of older ones. His thighs are bruised and the lines around his wrists where the cuffs were are inflamed and puffy, bleeding sluggishly. More horrifying is the similar line of irritated skin circling his neck, which had been hidden by the high collar of his uniform. Had they collared him? Electrocuted him more?

“Lance,” Shiro says, exasperation warring with exhaustion in his features. “Would you please just—”

“Just let me sit here,” Lance interrupts. “Please, I just want to see him.”

Shiro opens his mouth to reply, but Krolia shifts before he can say anything. She moves her legs slightly, leaving a sliver of space next to the bed. “Let him stay,” she says. “He saved his life.”

Shiro sighs, relenting. “Just sit down, please. You still look too pale.”

Lance obeys happily. His head still throbs and his knees feel weak. He curls his legs underneath him and leans against the side of the bed. His hand finds Keith’s upper arm, a rare spot unmarred by bruises or blood, and he grips it gently. Keith’s eyelashes flutter and he rolls his head over to look at Lance, eye a mere sliver glittering beneath his lid.

“Lance,” he murmurs.

Lance nods, squeezing slightly. “Yeah.”

“Thanks,” Keith says quietly.

Lance shakes his head. “Don’t thank me. You’re the one who saved us both with your badass fighting skills.”

Keith’s lips twitch in a slight smile. It should be comforting, but his lip splits again with the movement and a sluggish trail of fresh blood drips its way down his chin. Lance reaches up without thinking and stops its progress with his thumb. He lets his hand slide up to cup Keith’s cheek, the gesture almost a reflex. He doesn’t think about what it looks like, doesn’t think about the people watching them. Keith’s eye flutters closed under his touch. 

“Shiro said you were the only one who didn’t believe I was dead,” Keith whispers. “You were the only one who didn’t give up.”

“I could never give up on you,” Lance says, so quietly he’s not even sure Keith can hear him. But maybe he can, because he turns his face into Lance’s hand and Lance feels his breath hot on his palm, the ghost of his lips burning into his skin. 

“You should rest,” Lance mutters.

“You should too,” Keith slurs, already going boneless. Lance huffs a laugh and rests his head against the edge of the bed.

“I hope he doesn’t actually have a concussion,” he mumbles, letting his own eyes slide shut.

“What?” Shiro exclaims. “He has a concussion? He shouldn’t be sleeping!”

Krolia shakes her head. “I checked his head for wounds. I don’t think he’s in any danger on that front. We should let him rest.”

“Let him rest,” Lance echoes, wishing he could follow Keith into sleep. But the sounds of a battle are still seeping through the walls, and now that he’s not bleeding all over everything, he should probably go make himself useful.

He sighs, turning his face ever so briefly into Keith’s shoulder and breathing in the smell of him—even under the scent of blood and dirt and stale sweat, that particular scent of Keith bleeds through. Sandalwood and soap.

He gives himself a moment, then hauls himself upright to the sound of Shiro’s protests.

He makes it three steps before his knees give out. He doesn’t even feel it when he hits the ground.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow I also can't believe I updated so quickly! This one was a beast to edit and I ended up splitting it into two, so the next chapter will hopefully be updated in a timely fashion. To be fair, the rescue scene in this chapter was the very first scene I wrote for this fic, back when I thought it was going to be a oneshot, if I continued to write at all. Here we are 80,000 words later.Thanks for reading, commenting, and leaving kudos! Love y'all.
> 
>  
> 
> [Come say hi on tumblr.](https://prevalent-masters.tumblr.com)


	8. Barren

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Potential triggers in this chapter include blood and death, mentions of throwing up, and descriptions of injuries and torture.

He wakes slowly, to arguing. Specifically, Allura and Shiro arguing in that oddly polite manner only they can pull off. For a moment, it transports him back to the castleship—he certainly _feels_ like he could be there—exhausted, body stiff and aching in places he didn’t previously know were capable of aching quite like that. 

Then—he remembers. Sitting upright significantly worsens the throbbing in his temples and tingling ache in his shoulder. Emergency lights flash from the other room, and the hum of the engines sounds off, but he doesn’t care about any of that because Keith—

is right where Lance saw him last, pale and still on the tiny bunk. More bandage than skin, blood smeared on the mattress. Even though he sees the faint rise and fall of his chest, he can’t really feel at ease until he scoots forward to feel the thrum of a pulse against his fingers. Too fast, a little faint, but there. Keith’s warmer now, too, the heat of his skin soaking comfort into Lance’s fingers. He moves his hand briefly to Keith’s forehead, brushing filthy hair out of his eyes, and Keith turns into his hand, though he doesn’t wake.

He’s still tired. His head pounds. He wants to climb onto the bunk, curl himself around Keith, and fall back asleep.

But Allura and Shiro’s dulcet tones are still echoing from the other room, growing louder now, and the ship still sort of sounds like it’s about to crash; so he drags himself to his feet and stumbles to the door, leaning heavily on the wall.

“We don’t have a choice!” Allura says. “We have to land. We cannot make it out of this sector with our engines like this, let alone to Altea.”

“Then we should use the escape pods,” Shiro retorts. “We shouldn’t land. It’s a trap.”

“Just because the comms are out doesn’t mean it is a trap!”

“They’re not responding! There’s no sign of them! I’m telling you, Allura, Ranveig got here first. It’s the perfect trap for us. He knows we would need to land here, it’s strategic to plant some of his forces here to head us off, to recapture Keith. He knew we were coming. This was his insurance.”

“You give him a great deal of credit. We _must_ land!”

Riga interrupts finally, holding a hand up to stop Shiro’s retort. “We cannot use the escape pods. There are too many of us, now. We will not all fit.”

“Keith shouldn’t be moved, either, if we can help it,” Matt says.

Shiro looks panicked, hand clenched at his side and trembling slightly. “Still—we shouldn’t. We _can’t_. I don’t know why, I just feel like—“

“Lance!” Hunk exclaims loudly, seeing him leaned against the doorway. “You’re up! How are you feeling?”

“Like shit.” His voice comes out a croak. “What’s going on?”

“We outran Ranveig, but we got hit a few times. One of the engines is functioning at twenty percent, and we need to repair it. We’re approaching the checkpoint now, but no one is responding on comms,” Hunk summarizes. 

“We need to land to repair the engine,” Romelle says from the pilot seat. “It won’t carry us to the next planet as it is.”

“It’s a trap,” Shiro repeats again. “If we land, we’ll be overwhelmed.”

A loud grinding sound fills the ship and it lists to the side. Lance grabs the doorframe to avoid sliding across the floor and a loud thump sounds from the other room. He turns to see Keith, slumped on the floor and gasping, and rushes to help him. From behind him, Romelle says. “We don’t have any choice, now. We’re going down.”

He gets to Keith and manages to grasp his upper arms before the ship lists again, sending them both sliding across the floor. He tries to take the brunt of the impact as they hit the wall, but Keith still groans breathlessly. Shiro’s shouting in the other room, Romelle shouting back. They’re definitely falling, though it seems to be at least somewhat controlled by the remaining engine. 

“What…?” Keith asks, voice rough and eye hazy with pain and confusion.

“It’s okay,” Lance says, even though it really probably isn’t. “I’ve got you.”

Keith grimaces. “Hurts.”

“I know. I’m sorry.” 

The ship tilts again. Someone from the other room shouts “FUCK!” very loudly. Keith plants a hand on the floor, tries to lift himself to a sitting position, collapses back against Lance.

“Don’t,” Lance says, hands fluttering uselessly over Keith’s body. “It’s okay.”

“What’s happening?”

“Our ship got damaged. We’re landing to fix it.”

Keith’s brow furrows. “Landing…landing where?”

“The checkpoint.”

Panic flits across his face. He tries again to sit up, again falls back against Lance. “No—no, they knew you were going to attack, I heard them talking—they took over the checkpoint ages ago, I don’t know how long—I don’t remember what I said—I don’t know—“

Oh, shit. “Before—before a day ago?” Lance stutters.

“Before. A long time, I think.” His gaze is miles away, voice falling off into mumbles. Lance looks at him, and he looks so tired. Like he wants nothing more than to lay down and sleep for weeks. Like he wants to let go. Face still streaked with blood and dirt, despite their best efforts to clean it off with damp clothes. The ragged beard and strange, chopped hair lending him the look of a much older person, one who’s been living in the woods alone for years and only just emerged. Lance’s fingers twitch with the urge to brush the hair out of his eyes.

“Don’t pass out,” Lance says instead, and sets him carefully against the wall, stumbling towards the door. He doesn’t make it in time. The ship lands with a jarring crash, sends him to the floor. Keith himself slams against the far wall and falls limp as he hits.

“Keith!” Lance shouts over the yelling from the other room. He hears gunfire and searches wildly for something—anything—that might qualify as a weapon. He has no idea what became of his gun. It’s probably rolling around the floor of the other room.

“It’s a trap!” he yells into the other room as he takes Keith’s pulse—which is, thankfully, still there. “Keith said they took over the checkpoint!”

“ _No shit!_ ” Shiro yells back, against the sound of more gunshots. An explosion echoes through the ship and the gunshots grow louder. Someone screams. Lance stays where he is, cowering against the wall in front of Keith, as if he could take out an attacker with a single functional hand or something. He doesn’t even know where Keith’s knife is. Krolia must have it. They’re sitting ducks.

After a moment he gathers himself and crawls to the doorway to peek out. There are Galra on the ship, enough to far outnumber them—at least a dozen. Romelle’s slumped over the controls, bleeding; Riga’s on the floor. Hunk stands right in front of the door, hands up, and the rest are scattered around the cockpit in similar states, weapons dropped to the floor.

A tall, heavyset Galran with a cruel, twisted mouth stands in the center of the room, gun trained on Shiro. “Where is the prisoner?” he asks, and Lance realizes no one’s noticed him yet, or the doorway he’s peeking out of, thanks to Hunk’s shadow falling over it. Krolia is also nowhere to be seen, and he notices the sliding panel door to the hidden compartment is closed. If only he’d been able to get Keith in there with her.

“We don’t have them,” Shiro says, and the Galran laughs. “Such lies,” he says. “But then, you did always go out of your way to protect your friends, Champion.” He steps closer to Shiro, rests the muzzle of his gun under his chin. Shiro stays silent and pale, glaring at him; but Lance sees the way his hands tremble.

“I was ruined when you escaped, you know,” the Galran says almost casually, like Shiro is an old friend he’s trying to catch up with. In front of Lance, Hunk shifts slightly and Lance finally notices the gun tucked into his waistband, just poking out. His heart jumps and he slowly stands, crouching to reach up for the gun with his good arm without drawing any attention to himself. Everyone’s eyes are trained on Shiro and the Galran, even the other soldiers’.

“Humiliated,” the Galran continues. “How fitting, for me to capture you again. My lord Ranveig has given me permission to do with you whatever I please, and I’m afraid this time there will be no chance for escape. My only regret is that old man doesn’t appear to be with you…unless he’s hiding with the prisoner. But no matter. He was old and frail. He would not have survived the suffering I have planned for you two, and it would have been an annoyance for him to die so soon.”

Beside Shiro, Matt’s face contorts in anger. “Shut up!” he snarls, springing forward. A dozen guns swing around towards him, a shot fires—

One of the soldiers crumples, shot in the head, tripping up two others. Lance swivels around and shoots again as Matt collides with the tall Galran and his shot goes wide, hitting one of his own men. Allura springs out of her frozen position and hurries to Romelle’s side. Hunk dives out of Lance’s way, and someone yells, “There’s another room!” Abruptly, most of the Galra on the ship are headed straight for him. He stands his ground, aims, fires. There’s no way he’s leaving this doorway. There’s no way he’s leaving Keith undefended. 

The confines of the ship lead to rather close quarters for fighting, and the soldiers advance quickly. Shiro and Matt are both preoccupied with the tall Galran—their leader, Lance presumes—fighting him two on one, but he's holding his own. Hunk’s fighting three soldiers at once, Allura’s still crouched on the ground next to Romelle, and Riga, though stirring, doesn’t have a gun. He’s pretty much on his own, and he figures he’s going to die for the thousandth time in the last day. 

He’s forgotten about Krolia, though, and the hidden compartment. Just as he’s forced to duck back around the doorway as the soldiers fire on him, there’s a loud crash as Krolia pushes aside the panel and jumps out, swinging Keith’s blade with one hand and firing a gun with the other. Three of the soldiers drop before any of them realize where she’s coming from, and by the time the others catch on, both Hunk and Lance are on them, too. It doesn’t take long before they’re heaped on the floor, incapacitated or dead, and Krolia shoulders by Lance to run to Keith. Lance readjusts his grip on the gun, palm sweaty, and he and Hunk advance towards Shiro and Matt where they dance around the other Galran, barely able to get a strike in as he fires his guns, laughing maniacally. 

Shiro catches Lance’s eye as they advance and turns towards them, throwing his hand out to stop them from coming closer. “No!” he yells. “He’s ours!”

“Shiro, what—“

Hunk pulls him back by his elbow. His eyes are wide and he’s panting, arm held tight against his ribs where a shot grazed him. “Lance—that’s Captain Nerok.” The way he says it—heavy with meaning—makes it clear that’s someone Lance should know. He doesn’t, though. He stares at him. “Who?”

“Captain Nerok,” Hunk says again. “That’s the guy who captured the Kerberos mission.” 

“ _What?”_ Lance gasps, falling back and letting the gun drop to his side. Across the room, Allura helps Riga stand, but too they stay back, watching the tangle of movement in the center of the ship. “Shiro said he was dead. He was sure of it.”

“Yeah, well. We thought a lot of these guys were dead, didn’t we? They all seem to have found each other.” Hunk says grimly. 

In front of them, Matt screams as he ducks a shot a second too slow. While Nerok gloats and Matt glares at him, staff fallen, clutching his arm, Shiro lunges forward. Or, rather, his arm lunges, glowing white-hot, and grabs Nerok by the wrist. Nerok shrieks and drops the gun in that hand, wheeling around to face Shiro, arm a burnt mess. He's raising his other gun when Matt lunges forward, latches on to his arm, pulls him off balance until they land in a heap on the floor. He’s still got a gun, and he pulls it up against Matt’s ribcage, but Shiro moves too quickly for him to shoot, pulling him up and throwing him bodily against the wall. Hunk jumps and lets out a tiny whimper as Nerok crashes to the ground. Sometimes reminders of Shiro’s insane strength can be terrifying.

Nerok groans, but rises to his feet. He’s lost both guns, though, and Shiro and Matt close in quickly. They exchange a few blows back and forth, but Shiro quickly slams him back against the wall and he goes limp.

Matt looks to Shiro. “He’s all yours,” he says, and takes a half step back, leaving Shiro alone, pressing Nerok against the wall of the ship. Something dark and ugly passes over his face, a look of hatred so strong Lance flashes back briefly to memories of the clone, angry and so unlike the real Shiro in his cruelty. 

Shiro lifts his arm and plunges the hand directly into Nerok’s chest, the heated metal melting through cloth and skin like a hot knife through butter. He spasms, chokes once, and stills, hanging limp in Shiro’s grip. Lance hears his own gasp echoing in the room. Shiro’s hand drips with blood, and the huge Galran drops to the ground like a rag doll when Shiro releases him. 

They’re all silent for a long, crystalline moment, the only sound Shiro’s ragged breathing and the drip of blood off the wall to the floor. Then Shiro stumbles back, reeling until he hits the opposite wall by Lance, and crumples against it, letting out a long, low, keen and covering his face with his hands.

Allura stands, takes control, though she’s ashen and shaking. “Get rid of the bodies,” she says. “Get them out of here. Check if there are others.”

Hunk jumps to follow her orders as Matt collapses back against the wall, too, breathing hard and clutching his arm. Allura makes her way over to Shiro and crouches down next to him, speaking softly. Together, Hunk, Lance, and Riga pull the bodies out of the ship and pile them on the ground next to where they crashed. The checkpoint isn’t large, just a hunk of metal held in place by the gravitational pull of three large asteroids on the edge of the belt separating the checkpoint from Laurent. It’s essentially a docking bay, a communications tower, and a supply depot; and they crash landed right on top of the communications tower, bringing part of it crumbling down with them. He can see the docking bay across the way, and several small pods docked there. The Galra must have come in on those—stealthy, easy to hide. There’s no sign of the Alliance guards who should be stationed here. Lance has a bad feeling they’re all floating somewhere in space now.

After they’ve dragged out all the bodies, Riga and Hunk knock around the engines while Lance scouts the immediate area around them. No signs of more Galra, which is good, but Riga and Hunk’s faces don’t look promising when Lance returns to the ship.

“I don’t think this is fixable,” Hunk says, twisting his hands together as he stares at the crumpled wreckage of the engine side of their ship. “That landing didn’t help anything. If we just needed to get back to Laurent, we could cobble something together; but getting all the way to Altea…I don’t think this will carry us, no matter what we do.”

Riga knocks her fist against the side of the ship. Something fizzles, sparks, and a chunk of important-looking metal falls off the ship and hits the ground. The ship makes a groaning noise and settles deeper into the wreckage of the communications tower. “Unfortunately, I have to agree,” she says. “We could make repairs, but it would take us too long. Quintants.”

“We can take the pods the Galra came in,” Lance says. “I don’t think there are any others here.”

Hunk chews on his lip. “Yeah,” he says, sounding uncertain. “I guess. It’s not ideal. They don’t have cloaking technology.”

“Do we need that now?”

He shrugs. “Depends on how the battle goes, I guess.”

They duck back into the ship, where Matt, sporting a hasty bandage around his arm, is poking at the controls. “Are the comms still shot?” Hunk asks, and Matt nods, frustrated. 

“No idea what’s going on,” he says, slamming his fist on a button with absolutely no result. “I’d like to get back to Ostia.”

“The ship’s hopeless,” Hunk says. “Lance suggested the pods the Galra came in.”

Matt kicks the wall. “I know. That landing was fucked. We have to get Keith back to Altea fast, though. And Romelle, too. She needs a healing pod.”

“The pods are fast,” Lance says, gravitating towards the other room. 

“No cloaking, though,” Hunk says again as Lance slips through the door, searching the dim room for Keith.

He’s back on the bunk, Krolia leaning over him fiddling with a bandage. Romelle’s on the floor, head in Allura’s lap, and Shiro’s crouched in the corner, head on his knees, arms up to cover it like he’s protecting himself from something. Lance looks to Allura and she shakes her head. 

“He’s not responsive. I think he is having a flashback, but I’m unsure how to help.” Her jaw clenches and he realizes she’s afraid. “I know the ship is too damaged. Keith and Romelle both need healing pods, but we’re so far away from Altea…” she trails off, staring at the wall.

“We’ll get them there,” Lance says, moving to crouch beside Shiro. He puts a hesitant hand on his shoulder, and Shiro flinches away from him, cringing back into the wall. “Shiro,” he says softly. “It’s Lance. It’s okay.”

Shiro’s mumbling something, too quickly for Lance to catch his words. His entire body trembles, reverberating into Lance’s hand. “Shiro,” he says again. “It’s Lance. You’re with us, me and Allura and Matt and Hunk—Keith’s here, too. Remember? We got him.”

Shiro lets out a tiny gasp. “Keith?”

“Yeah,” Lance says. “He’s here. We got him, remember?”

Shiro shakes his head. “Captured. Nerok.”

“No. He was here, but you killed him.”

Shiro’s fists clench and he raises his head, just barely, enough to meet Lance’s eyes. “He ruined my life,” he hisses. “He ruined us all."

Carefully, Lance lowers his hand to Shiro’s shoulder again. He doesn’t shrug it off, this time. “I know,” he says soothingly. “You made him pay. He’s gone now. You’re safe. We’re all safe.”

Shiro stares at him. “Safe.”

Lance nods. “Safe,” he repeats again, firmly. 

Shiro’s eyes dart around the room, frantic. “Keith.”

“Right there,” Lance points at the bunk. “See?”

Shiro frowns. “He’s hurt.”

“Yeah. He’ll be okay, once we get to Altea.”

“Nerok’s fault.”

“Well…not really. He was captured, remember? Held on Laurent.”

Shiro's eyes narrow. “Nerok’s fault. None of this ever would have happened without him. He started it all.”

Lance refrains from saying that the Galra would have come to Earth eventually, even if the Kerberos mission was never captured, even if Keith never found the Blue Lion, even if Voltron was never resurrected. Maybe it wouldn’t have happened for centuries, but they still would have come. Maybe it would have happened much sooner—Nerok’s ship was near their solar system on an exploratory mission, after all. The Galra would have found out about Earth and humanity eventually, and Earth would have crumbled immediately in the face of an attack, with no hope of liberation from Voltron or anyone else.

Does he wish none of this had happened? It’s true, Nerok’s capture of the Kerberos mission set in motion the events that brought him to space, that brought him to here and now. Without Nerok, Lance might have been a cadet or an officer at the Garrison when the Galra attacked. Or maybe he would have grown up, grown old, and died long before they ever came. He wouldn’t have spent his teenage years fighting a war, watching people die, nearly dying himself. None of them would have. He might have died when the Galra came, but would that death have been easier than the life he’s had instead? Without Nerok, Shiro would have two arms and a wedding band on his finger. Keith wouldn’t have been captured and tortured, or forced to fight his own brother. Pidge would have never lost her brother and father at all.

But, then again, Keith wouldn’t have found Krolia. Shiro might be dead from the disease ravaging his muscles. Hunk wouldn’t have found Shay, the Altean colony would be living in slavery, Allura and Coran would still be sleeping endlessly in their castle, hidden from the universe, doomed to die forgotten. The Galra Empire would be in power. Lance would have never said more than two words to Keith. He wouldn’t have him.

Fate works in mysterious ways, he supposes. Nerok deserved his death by Shiro’s hand, unquestionably. The consequences of the capture of the Kerberos mission have been horrifying, destroyed hundreds of thousands of lives, brought about unspeakable suffering. And yet, it was also the first move in a long chess game that eventually brought about the end of the Empire and the resolution of a ten thousand year long war.

Nothing is ever black and white.

He’s shaken out of his reverie by Shiro shuddering next to him.

“You made him pay,” Lance says again. “He’ll never hurt anyone again. None of them will.”

Shiro stares at him, then gives a single shaky nod. Lance turns his attention back to Allura. 

“We need to take the transport pods the Galra came in. Krolia can go in one with Keith and Romelle. It’ll be light with just the three of them, and hard to detect. They’ll get back to Altea quickly. The rest of us can divide up in the others. Matt wants to go back to Ostia—our comms are broken, so we don’t know how the battle is going. Shiro should go back to Altea, too, but not in tandem with Krolia’s pod, otherwise they'll be easier to detect.”

Allura nods, slowly. “Yes. That will work. It still won’t get back to Altea as quickly as we could if this ship was functional, but both of them are relatively stable. Romelle has a concussion, but as long as she’s in a pod within the quintant she should recover well. I should to go Ostia, too.”

“Yeah,” Lance swallows down the apprehension at the thought of leaving Keith behind and says, “I should, too. We all should, in case they need help.”

Krolia turns away from Keith at last, holding a crumpled mess of bloody bandages. “Shiro should come with us,” she says. “One more body in our pod will not slow us down significantly. Then the rest of you can take the remaining pods back to Ostia. The more craft you have, the better. They may need the firepower.”

Allura bites her lip, eases Romelle’s head off her lap, and stands. “Are you sure you can pilot for that long? You have your own injuries.”

Krolia shakes her head. “I’m fit to pilot. I’ve gone through worse.” She smiles wryly. “Nothing more than a bit of a headache, now. And I’m not leaving Keith.”

“Alright,” Allura sighs. “We have a plan, then.”

She and Krolia return to the other room, and Lance steps forward to Keith’s bunk.

Lance looks down at him. A million things he wants to say to Keith rage through his mind— _if I’m not right next to you, I’m going to think this whole thing was a dream. I’m going to think you’re still gone. I’m so sorry it took us so long. Are you really okay? I missed you so much. I never want to let you out of my sight._

His throat closes around all of it. Instead, he gently grips Keith’s hand, carefully avoiding the bandages around his wrist. He squeezes once, lost in the realizations jarring on the edges of his consciousness ever since Keith disappeared. Or really, ever since he first showed up at the farm, wild and blazing and so very Keith it made Lance’s stomach turn in on itself and his heart pound. Or really, since forever.

_I don’t want to lose you._

_I want to keep you._

_I don’t know what I’d do without you._

Keith stays silent and sleeping, head turned slightly to the side. He looks behind him. Shiro’s still in the corner, breathing easier now, but still with his head buried in his knees. Everyone else is in the other room.

Before he can talk himself out of it, he bends down and presses a kiss to Keith’s forehead. A little too warm now, a little sweaty. _Alive_ , he keeps reminding himself. That’s all that matters.

He squeezes Keith’s hand one last time and leaves the room without looking back.

* * *

Allura pulls him aside as they’re boarding the pods. Krolia, Romelle, Shiro, and Keith left almost an hour before, and the rest of them had been busy stripping the ship they’d come in of any useful weapons. Between the two of them, Hunk and Matt managed to make the guns on the pods about three times more effective than they’d been before.

“Are you sure about this, Lance?” Allura asks under her breath. “You could follow them to Altea now, if you wanted.”

He shakes his head. “I need to go to Ostia. I want to help.”

She glances meaningfully at his shoulder, the blood seeping through the bandage. “You’re hurt, Lance.”

“I don’t need full mobility to steer and shoot guns.”

“Still. I thought you would want to stay with Keith.”

He looks at her. “I thought you’d want to stay with Romelle.”

She flushes slightly and her eyes dart away. “I am an Alliance leader. I need to go to where the fight is. I know Romelle will be all right.”

“The whole point of being a queen is you can let other people fight your battles for you.”

She glares at him. “Only if you want them to loose their trust in you.”

He shrugs. “They’re my people, too. I don’t want to stand by or run away if they need our help. And if you can leave Romelle, I can leave Keith. He’s got Krolia and Shiro to keep him safe.”

She tilts her head, looking at him with that deep gaze he always felt could read him down to his heart. “You and Keith,” she says thoughtfully, and the heat rises in Lance’s cheeks. She pats his shoulder. “I’m happy you’ve found your way to each other.”

She starts to turn away, but he blurts out what he’s thinking before she’s fully walked away. “I can’t be useless and sit by,” he says. “If I go with him, I’ll do nothing but worry. Sit and worry. I’m tired of sitting and worrying.”

She turns back to him with a brief smile. “When we get back to Altea, he’ll be in a pod, healing. And everything will be alright.” She refrains from even mentioning Lance’s greater fear—that they’ll fly into a disaster, that Ranveig will win, that they won’t be alive to return to Altea. He knows she feels the same fear. He saw it spark in her eyes when he mentioned Romelle.

“Yeah,” he manages, and turns to climb into his own pod.

The battle grows visible long before they reach Laurent and Ostia, the planet’s surface lit up with explosions, cannon fire and laser beams flying between pods, ships, and the surface of Ostia. They haven’t managed to patch back into the comms yet, which is slightly worrying because they’re flying back into the battle in Galra pods and Lance would like to avoid getting blown up by his own allies. Hunk’s doing his best, though, and Lance tries not to let his worry show. As they get closer, he wiggles his injured arm out of the sling and grips the controls tightly. His shoulder hurts, but he needs to be able to maneuver, to dodge the flotsam—pieces of ships, chunks of metal, a few bodies he doesn’t want to think about. The detritus of battle. They also have to start dodging laser fire, whether they’re shots aimed at them or just missing their intended targets. Lance grits his teeth and clenches his hands white knuckled on the controls. He remembers how to fly, he supposes it’s one of those things, like riding a bike; but his reflexes are dulled, slow, and the pod doesn’t respond to him the way the lions used to. 

The lions. He imagines Blue’s steadiness in the back of his head, Red’s fire and lightning-quick maneuverability. It doesn’t feel right to fight when he isn’t in one of them, but the memories steady him.

A streak of laser fire comes straight for him and he barely manages to swerve out of the way. A quick glance shows the others are avoiding fire, too. They’re definitely being targeted now.

_“Hunk!”_ Allura’s voice crackles through their comms. “ _Can you connect us to someone? I don’t want to have to fight our own forces all the way to Ostia_.”

_“I’m trying!_ ” Hunk says, sounding strained. “ _I’m not good with this like Pidge is. Matt, any ideas?”_

_“No, I—“_

_“Wait! Wait, I got something—this is Commander Garrett, hold your fire on the incoming Galra pods! It’s me, Commander McClain, Commander Holt, and Queen Allura_.”

A bewildered voice patches through in response. “ _Commanders? You should be halfway back to Altea already. What happened?”_

_“All is well_ ,” Allura assures. “ _We were pursued off planet and our ship sustained damage. We had to stop at the checkpoint and were ambushed there, but were able to fight them off. Admiral Shirogane and the rescued Blades are en route to Altea, we decided to return in case more forces were needed. What is the status of the battle?”_

The laser fire stops, which is a relief. Lance tries to loosen his grip on the controls, but finds his hands stiff with stress.

“ _Ostia will fall shortly, I believe. Heavy losses sustained on both sides. They knew we were coming, but we have more fighters, and the Atlas. We have had some assistance from Laurentians. No sign of Ranveig.”_

_“Good_ ,” Allura says. “ _The Atlas?”_

_“Attacking Ostia directly.”_

_“Thank you. Stay safe.”_ The comms cut off with a spurt of static and Allura’s pod jumps in front of them, leading the way towards Ostia. As soon as the Galra craft around them realize the Alliance isn’t firing on them they replace it with their own fire and soon Lance isn’t thinking much, relying on instinct and adrenaline to get him past the outer edges of the battle. It gets messier the closer they get to Ostia, more destroyed ships floating around, more Alliance crafts to maneuver through. It seems like the rebels tried to make a barricade around the moon with their own ships, which was a good idea. The Alliance clearly broke through recently, but remnants remain, firing towards them almost constantly. The pod shudders as a shot hits its side, sending Lance spinning. The pods are so much less sturdy than the lions were. As soon as he straightens out, another shot hits head-on, taking out one of his guns. It’s not as if the guns were great to begin with, but he feels even less confident without the minimal defense.

“ _Be careful, Lance_!” Hunk’s voice comes patchy through the comms.

“Yeah, no shit!” He snaps back, blinking stars out of his eyes. “I’m trying!”

A few well-aimed shots from Hunk’s pod intercept the next shot coming for him and he’s able to gather himself, get the pod under control, and avoid the next shots. He can see the Atlas now, in full-on battle mode, firing down at Ostia relentlessly, shield strong around it. Rebel crafts swoop around, barraging it, but their guns are small comparatively and the shield barely flickers. It looks good. They must have been working on it. He seems to remember Pidge saying something about improving on the shielding tech, but it’s a fuzzy memory—from back when he wasn’t really paying attention to anything anyone ever said to him, too lost in his own fog of existence to care. A sudden wave of guilt washes over him, even though it’s stupid—too late, now; and the middle of a battle isn’t really the time to examine his past choices. Still, it rises strong, burning in his throat. 

He turns to face the ships attacking the Atlas and Hunk’s pod draws up next to his, Allura flanking him on the other side. Together, they fire at the ships, maneuvering around each other the way he remembers doing with the lions. They cover his lack of a gun and he sneaks in extra shots while the ships are still recovering from Hunk and Allura’s attacks. Together, they take down several. He’s not sure if it’s adrenaline that’s making him feel strangely happy suddenly, or if it’s just nice to be fighting alongside Allura and Hunk again after so long. He missed this, he realizes with something like surprise. He thought he’d hate coming back up here, fighting so far from home, but something about it feels like a missing puzzle piece slotting back where it belongs. A crack that’s been splitting his heart for so long suddenly mended.

Behind them, a huge explosion on the surface of Ostia literally blows the Atlas back, pushing them along in its wake. He hears Hunk yelp through the comms.

“ _What was that?”_ Allura demands, but Lance doesn’t have an answer. Soon, the Atlas rights itself and descends towards the surface of Ostia. Other Alliance craft follow in it’s wake, and they join in. As the dust clears, Lance makes out a huge crater in the golden surface of the moon, a giant hole leading down into passageways growing clearer as they fly closer. It looks like the Atlas literally blew it’s way into the tunnels under the surface. Small crafts, fighters and escape pods, stream from the holes like ants from a kicked anthill. They’re trying to fight, firing at the Atlas and other Alliance ships, but they’re hopelessly outnumbered and pinned against the moon, the forces that were defending them scattered and largely destroyed. Most of the smaller fighters seem to be grouped around a larger ship, trying to protect it.

“ _That’s Ranveig_ ,” Allura says. “ _I’m sure of it_.”

The rest of the Alliance fighters seem to agree with her assumption, as they all turn their guns to the grouping of ships. The Atlas is preoccupied with the last of the defensive forces, shooting them down with sickening precision, ships falling to crash on the dusty surface of Ostia. Lance tries to stay out of the way, mostly, the volume of ships in such a small area posing a larger danger than the rebels at this point. He draws back from the battle and tries not to think about how many people are dying, adrenaline fading slightly. The creeping tendrils of guilt and shock that always grip him after a battle start to prickle and he feels slightly sick. 

It’s only because he’s fallen back that he sees the small ship on the other side of the Atlas, lifting off Ostia and flying away from the battle unnoticed. Something twists in his belly and he’s on the comms before he knows it, totally sure of the truth of his words.

“I think that’s Ranveig,” he says, turning his pod to face the fleeing ship and gripping the controls. “The other ship is a decoy.”

“ _Where_?” Allura asks. “ _I don’t see anything._ ”

“I’m following it,” Lance says, and turns to follow though Allura and Hunk both protest. “ _That_?” Hunk asks. “ _It doesn’t even have a pod to defend it, I don’t think that’s him—wait, Lance, don’t just go—"_

It’s probably a stupid thing to do, to follow with a damaged pod and only one gun, and no backup, but Lance isn’t thinking that much about it because if he did the ship would get away. He hears Hunk swearing and sees his pod following out of the corner of his eye.

The ship finally realizes it’s being followed and fires at Lance, who dodges and returns fire. His pod is smaller than it, a little more agile, so he’s able to catch up, exchanging fire the whole way. Another blast hits the side of the pod and he barely manages to maintain control, gritting his teeth. Others are following him now, too.

He’s close now, right up next to it, darting around like an annoying fly as he avoids their fire and tries to land his somewhere useful—the windows, or the engine. His pod’s shaky now, though, and he’s moving around so much to avoid shots he can’t aim well. Other shots come from behind him, but Hunk can’t make a clear shot, either, because Lance is too close. He needs to fall back, but at this point, if he does, he’ll be an easy target.

He grits his teeth. He’s backed himself into a corner and doesn’t have many options that won’t end without him getting blown up. He thinks of Keith, briefly, of how many times Keith did this very thing, how angry he would be with him afterwards. He wonders if Keith’s safe in Altea yet. He wonders if Keith will be mad at him when he hears about this.

He grits his teeth and pushes his speed, swinging his pod around to the front of the ship. He’s close enough to see through the front window, to look at the pilot’s face, a fierce-looking Galran with a long scar splitting their face in half, one of their eyes replaced with a red robotic prosthetic. The pilot's eyes widen when they see him and Lance knows he has a split second before they can aim and tear his pod to shreds with a single hit.

He takes a deep breath. Aims. Fires.

The ship’s window shatters. For a moment everything seems still, the window spiderwebbed with cracks, and then it buckles under the pressure, collapsing in on itself. Space sucks the pilot away unceremoniously, and the ship spirals out of control. Lance tries to maneuver his own pod away but he’s not fast enough. The ship tilts and runs headlong into him.

He’s thrown from the seat, smashing into the control panel. Bright pain tears through his arm and his skull smashes against something hard for the umpteenth time. He feels his body sliding limply to the floor and tries to rouse himself, tries to move, to grip the controls, _something_ , but he can’t. He knows the pod’s spiraling out of control, that he’s bound to collide with something soon, but he can’t do anything about it. His head is swimming, vision blurred.

The pod jerks, shudders, jolts to the side. He blinks blood out of his eyes and forces his arm to move, to grip onto the seat and drag his heavy body up. He manages to slump forward enough to see out the front window, and at first he can’t tell what’s happening, thinks he must have crashed, because all he can see is black and white, no sign of other ships or debris or the stars. Then his vision clears and he sees it’s the side of the Atlas, one of its huge hands guiding his wrecked pod towards the main body of the ship. The pod shudders again and he slides back down, watches as a hatch slides open near the top of the Atlas’ head and his pod gets sucked in, landing with a bang and a jolt that sends him reeling again, clutching at his head.

A few moments go by and then the roof of the pod lifts and a frightened face peers through. “Leandro?”

“Veronica?” he croaks. He shifts, trying to stand and finds his legs shaky, unable to support his own weight. Veronica reaches down and hauls him out of the pod, steadying him as he stumbles against her. The moment he’s standing on his own two feet, she envelopes him in a tight hug, her grip tinged with desperation. “ _ ¡Idiota!  _ You didn’t even tell us you were leaving Earth! Do you have any idea how worried mom and dad are?”

“Oh—“ he says, brain moving slowly from the combination of exhaustion, pain, and rapidly fading adrenaline. “ _N_ _o pensé. _ ”

“Clearly,” she snaps, drawing back to look at him, lifting a hand to wipe at the blood dripping down his forehead. “ _ Te ves mal _ —you need a pod!”

He shakes his head. _“Estoy bien. No está malo."_

She rolls her eyes and takes his arm, pulling him towards the door of the hangar. He stumbles, nearly falls, and she pulls his good arm over her shoulders, wraps her arm around his waist, and supports him out into the corridor, past people running, talking into comms, supporting or carrying the wounded. She guides him stumbling towards one of the med bays, sits him in a chair, and orders him to wait for her to come back. People rush around him, doctors and EMTs, people carrying limp and bleeding bodies, people who look dead.

His head aches and his shoulder burns as his thoughts turn to Keith. Did they make it back to Altea? Is Keith healing now, in a pod? They’ve had no word, at least none that’s made it to Lance’s ears. He should have gone with them.

He leans forward to rest his aching head on his knees, hand clutched over the wound in his shoulder, leaking fresh blood again. His stomach rolls with the movement, bile rising in his throat. He’s never been so tired in his life.

Footsteps at the door. “Lance? Lance!” He looks up and Hunk’s figure stands in front of him, slightly blurred. “What the hell were you thinking, going after the ship like that? I saw them hit you, I thought—I thought—” He breaks off, swallowing. “I didn’t know where you were, thank god you’re okay—you’re…are you okay?”

His vision blurs again, black spots dancing across Hunk’s worried face, crowding the edges of his sight. “I don’t feel good,” he croaks. “Hunk, I—“

He has time to think _not again_ before his vision disappears entirely and he pitches forward into Hunk’s arms.

* * *

He wakes slowly—comfortable. It smells familiar, like flowers and fresh air and for a long moment he thinks he’s home, in his parent’s house. A breeze brushes against his face and it’s warm. He sighs, turning his head into the pillow, not overly eager to open his eyes.

Something touches his shoulder softly. “Lance?”

He blinks his eyes open. The illusion of home melts away at the first sight of smooth white walls and blue accents, a window open to light subtly different than that of Earth. He’s on Altea.

He slides his gaze over. Hunk leans over him, concern written on his features. “How do you feel?”

He blinks, trying to take stock. The pain in his shoulder, his leg, his neck, his ribs—gone. His head still aches dully, but it’s more the fuzziness of a long time spent sleeping than the probable concussion he was dealing with after the battle. He feels, he realizes, the way he used to after coming out of a pod. Disoriented, a bit loopy, exhausted beyond reason.

“Better,” he croaks, alarmed at the gravel of his voice. “How long?”

“You were only in the pod for about five hours,” Hunk says, sitting back slightly. “But when you came out, you barely woke up. You passed out again and we couldn’t wake you. The doctors said it was just exhaustion, but I—well. I’m glad you’re awake. Oh! Do you want water?”

Lance nods and pushes himself into what passes for a sitting position as Hunk hands him a water pouch. He savors the cool wash of it down his throat. “Where are we?”

“The hospital on Altea. Allura wants you in the palace when you feel better, but it was easier to bring you straight here with everyone else who needed medical attention. You were right, by the way. That ship was Ranveig’s. He was piloting it, completely alone, left everyone else behind as a distraction in a bid to escape. Your shot killed him.”

“Oh,” Lance says, unsure how to feel about it. Of course, it’s good he’s dead, and he feels some sort of satisfaction from being right, but he doesn’t want to think about how many he’s killed in the last few days. It’s never going to be something that makes him feel good.

Then he remembers and drops his water, spilling the dregs on himself and the sheets. “Keith!”

Hunk clears his throat and avoids his gaze as he pushes himself the rest of the way to sitting. “Hunk? Is he okay?”

Hunk clears his throat again. “He’s…he came out of the pod yesterday. He was only in a bit longer than you were.”

“What? Why?”

Hunk sighs and leans forward, finally meeting Lance’s gaze. “It couldn’t heal most of it. The injuries were too old, most of them were already healed over.”

“His feet? His eye?”

Hunk shakes his head. “Coran always told us the pods have limits. The doctors are saying they might be able to…improve the foot situation with skin grafts. Apparently they’re quite advanced.”

Lance sinks back down into the pillows. “It was supposed to be fixed! I kept telling him it would be okay.”

Hunk sighs. “It will be. It’s just not going to be as easy as we’d hoped.”

“Have you seen him?”

Hunk looks uncomfortable. “I—er. That’s complicated.”

“What do you mean?”

“He. Well. He’s in and out of consciousness, but he’s not really…with it? Like, he didn’t recognize Shiro, or his mom. He thinks he’s still on Laurent. Just…really disoriented.”

Lance throws the covers back and swings his legs out of bed. “Is he here?”

“Well, yeah, but—“

He stands and immediately sways with vertigo, steadying himself on Hunk’s shoulder. 

“Uh, yeah, I don’t know if that’s a good idea—“

“I need to see him,” Lance interrupts. 

“Lance, he’s really not doing well! I think you should rest more, and then come back to the palace with me. We can get you some food—”

“I don’t need food. I need to see him.”

Hunk bites his lip and twists his fingers, eyes darting around the room like he’s looking for someone to rescue him, or force Lance to stay in bed. “Hunk,” Lance repeats. “Please.”

Hunk relents with a heaving sigh. “Fine. But then we need to go back to the palace. Allura wanted to meet after you were up.”

“Fine, that’s fine,” Lance agrees distractedly. He’s wearing light Altean pajamas, and he’d really like to put on real clothes, but he figures the ones he was wearing were destroyed beyond saving. “My clothes?”

Hunk hands him a thick white robe. “Sorry, dude. You can find something better when we get back to the palace.” He eyes him as he wraps the robe around himself. “I still feel like you shouldn’t be walking around yet.”

“I’m fine, Hunk,” he insists, which isn’t totally true because he definitely feels a little wobbly, but that’s not going to stop him. “Let’s go.”

Hunk sighs his defeat and guides Lance out of his room and down a few hallways, past dozens of identical doors and doctors and nurses who all smile at them, some greeting Hunk with a wave or a pat on the shoulder. He’s clearly been around a lot the last few days. 

Eventually they round a corner and Lance spots Shiro down the hall, leaning slumped against the wall beside a door. He straightens with a start as he catches sight of them and Lance doesn’t miss how he schools his features into something careful and controlled before they reach him. He smiles at Lance, though it looks out of place on his drawn face, dark circles deep beneath tired eyes. “Lance! Good to see you up! How are you feeling?”

“I’m okay,” he replies. “How’s Keith?”

Shiro’s expression shutters for a moment before he smiles again with clear difficulty. “He’s stable,” he says, and doesn’t elaborate.

Hunk steps forward. “Did he wake up again?”

Shiro sighs and nods. “He still—he doesn’t recognize me. He thinks I’m—I’m the clone. He’s too confused. It was upsetting him, I had to leave.” He finally gives up control of his face and his expression crumples. “I don't know what to do.”

Lance steps toward the door, but Hunk blocks him with a hand. “No—Lance, you shouldn’t go in if he’s awake. It’s only going to upset you both. I promise, I’ve seen him, it isn’t good.”

Lance pushes past him. “I didn’t walk over here to stand outside his door.”

“He’ll be asleep again soon,” Shiro says. “He doesn’t have the strength to stay awake for long. We can go back in then.”

Lance just shakes his head. Keith’s right on the other side of the door, and he needs to see him now. There’s a part of him that feels he might have dreamed the whole thing—the rescue, the escape, the battle—that Keith isn’t here, really, that the person behind the door is someone different, an imposter. That he’ll wake again, this time on Earth, and Keith will be as far away and lost as ever. 

He slips past Hunk’s reaching hand and opens the door.

The room’s small, well-lit by a large window. There are flowers on the side table and a coat—Shiro’s—thrown over the back of a chair. It’s warm. Peaceful. Keith looks anything but.

He’s bunched up on the bed, knees to his chest, flush riding high on the cheekbones of his otherwise pale face. His eye is bandaged in clean white, and his hair and body look clean. Now, outside of the panic of battle and escape, Lance truly sees how skinny he is, collarbones protruding above the loose shirt he’s wearing, hands skeletal where they clutch at the blanket. He’s hooked up to an IV, running into his hand, and monitors on the wall read out measurements and data incomprehensible to Lance. Keith’s head jerks up as the door shuts behind him and he glares at Lance, clearly fighting against exhaustion.

“What are you doing here?” he snaps, voice still gravelly. 

“Just here to see how you’re feeling,” Lance says mildly, desperately trying to conceal his dismay at Keith’s condition. Keith scoffs. 

“I know you’re not real. You look like Lance, but I know you’ve drugged me, you can’t trick me. And if you think I’m going to tell you anything just because you have his face, you can go fuck yourself.” After he finishes, he flinches into himself, like he’s expecting a blow. Lance’s heart cracks and he drops heavily into the chair. “I’m not going to hurt you, or ask you any questions.”

Keith scoffs again, scooting as far away from Lance as he can, perched on the very edge of the bed. Now that he’s closer, Lance can see the faint tremors running through his limbs.

“You can’t trick me,” he says again, quieter this time. Lance ignores him, but eventually speaks again. “You’re going to fall off the bed.”

“ _You can’t trick me_!” Keith shouts it this time, slamming his palm on the bed. “This is a hallucination! There is no bed—I know—look!”

Lance jolts to his feet, realizing a second too late what Keith’s about to do. He’s not fast enough to grab him before Keith lets himself tip over the side of the bed, landing on the floor with a cry of pain. Cursing, Lance darts over, crouching down and grabbing Keith’s arm without thinking. Keith freezes at the touch, and Lance feels the trembling under his palm. He lets go quickly, hands hovering above Keith, afraid to touch. “I’m sorry,” he says. “I should have asked to touch you. Can I help you? You’re going to hurt yourself more.”

Keith gasps on the floor and turns his good eye to Lance. “I fell,” he says, sounding confused, so childlike. Lance nods. “Yeah.”

Keith frowns. “But there’s no bed.”

“There is a bed. You fell off it. This isn’t a hallucination, Keith.”

Keith blinks at him, gaze clearing slightly. “You came,” he says after a beat, struggling to sit up. “I remember.”

Lance doesn’t know what he’s referring to. “What?”

“You came and found me.” Keith grimaces as he shifts, and Lance finally lets his gaze shift down to Keith’s feet, swathed in bandages, where they drag against the floor. “We had to fight.” He reaches out abruptly and grips Lance’s shoulder. “I remember.”

“Yeah,” he replies, tearing his gaze away from his feet and back to his face. “I did. We got you out. You saved my life.”

Keith stares at him. “You saved mine.”

“We saved each other. Can I help you back into bed?”

Keith looks at him for another beat before nodding.

“Can I touch you?”

Keith nods again. Lance loops a hand around Keith’s back and under his legs and heaves him back into the bed, shoulder tingling in protest. Keith’s eye doesn’t leave Lance’s face. He pulls the sheets back over Keith’s legs, checks to make sure the IV didn’t fall out, and hands Keith a glass of water from the bedside table. “Drink,” he says. “Your voice sounds like shit.”

“No it doesn’t,” Keith says, but takes the offered glass and drinks down a few swallows before handing it back.

“Will you go back to sleep?”

Keith narrows his eye. “If I do, the dream will end.”

“It’s not a dream.”

Keith’s eye is drooping and he’s melting back into the pillows even though Lance can tell he’s struggling to stay conscious. “Maybe not. I don’t know what’s happening, Lance. I don’t know where I am.”

Lance sits on the edge of the bed and cups Keith’s cheek in his hand. His skin is hot, even for Keith—too hot—and dry. His eyelashes flutter against his touch. “You’re on Altea. You’re safe. I’m here, and so is Shiro, and your mom, and Hunk, and Allura. Ranveig’s dead. It’s over. Do you believe me?”

Keith finally gives up and lets his eye slide shut. “I don’t know.”

“I’ll tell you again when you wake up.”

Keith sighs, relaxing against Lance. “You’ll stay?”

“Yeah,” he says, because of course he will. “Yeah.”

Keith’s asleep. Lance stays in place for a moment to make sure he doesn’t stir, then slowly stands and moves back to the chair. As he turns, he sees Shiro and Hunk silhouetted in the doorway, shock written on their faces.

“You’re the first person he’s even half recognized since we got here,” Hunk whispers, shaking his head. “I can’t believe it. You almost got him to see sense. And you calmed him down.”

“You should stay,” Shiro says. “Maybe he’ll recognize you when he wakes up again.”

“I said I would,” Lance says, settling into the chair. “I’ll stay for as long as it takes.”

* * *

Later, Lance curls in the chair and studies Keith. Catalogues him. His lower body is covered by the sheets and a shirt covers most of the damage Lance remembers seeing on his torso, but even what remains visible tells a grim story. Proof of what the pod couldn’t fix. His eye, of course, and a shiny scar across his neck where Lance noticed the burn marks, similar to the ones etched around his wrists where the cuffs electrocuted him. His ear, too, healed in a jagged scar, lobe no longer smooth and rounded. The bruises are gone, the open wounds, the cuts, the scrapes. But Lance has a feeling he could peel back the shirt and the sheets and find layers and layers of scars and badly healed wounds. His mind keeps turning back to the feet. Of course, he’d never even considered the possibility that Keith wouldn’t be able to walk, wouldn’t be able to go back to everything he’d done before, as good as new after some time in a pod. Even after seeing the wreckage of his skin, even after throwing up, after wondering, vaguely, how the pods would be able to fix damage like that, he hadn’t really thought…thought that….

Keith might not be able to walk. That’s the plain truth. He might not be able to walk, and he might not be able to see out of his eye, and what if they’d been able to get to him sooner? What if they hadn’t taken so long to trace him? What if Lance had just _gone_ , just followed his instinct and gotten to him sooner, maybe before they burned him? Maybe before they cut open his eye? Maybe before they hit him or drugged him or starved him or god knows what else? Every day might have made a difference, and it took them so long to get there.

Keith grumbles and turns his head on the pillow, brow furrowed. Lance reaches out to touch his cheek and he settles. His skin still burns, but no hotter than before. The doctor said he has a fever, his body trying desperately to combat dehydration and malnutrition and whatever cocktail of drugs they’d given him, alongside the vestiges of infection the pod hopefully healed. The doctor also mentioned skin grafts, like Hunk, describing some complicated and painful-sounding process Lance honestly couldn’t follow. He’d never thought much about burns or how to heal them. He’d never thought much about healing at all, because for so long healing just meant getting someone to a pod before it was too late. 

How strange for them all to have such a view of injury, of death. Get them to a pod, and a broken body comes out like new. Bones knit, skin smoothes, blood returns to where it belongs. Come out, move on, fight another day. Even if you didn't make it back in time, all you needed was Allura's powers and you'd still be back on your feet in no time. Sometimes, Lance forgets that he died. He was hit, he died, he was dead. And then he was alive again, all in less than a minute. How messed up is that?

He'd never really thought about how they were some of the few in the universe lucky enough to have those precious pods. They were some of the few in the universe to nearly die over and over again, death sentence after death sentence, and yet survive. The Galra had something similar. So did the Olkari. But for most of the war, the Castle of Lions had the only surviving Altean healing pods in the universe, and because of that, Lance’s saw death and crippling injury as something you could cheat. Sleep off in an hour or two. 

Until you can’t. Until you get to the pod too late and your bones have already healed crooked and you’re skin won’t grow back and your sight has been gone for weeks and there’s nothing broken left to heal anymore. 

He shudders and draws back. Keith sighs in his sleep. He keeps staring at him, this time cataloguing everything around the injuries. Everything identifying him as Keith. The thick eyebrows. The permanent pouty turn of his lips. The length of his lashes, fanning against his cheekbone. His hair, still unruly, as shorn as it is. His nails, short and ragged and bitten to the quick. His chest rising and falling. Lance has felt his heartbeat under the palm of his hand, his breath against his own skin. He’s memorized the feel of Keith’s body next to his, he’s come to expect Keith to be there. He has, despite himself, fallen into Keith’s orbit. 

And then he was gone, and he’s come back different, and Lance doesn’t know what to do. Doesn’t know what the future looks like. Doesn’t know if Keith will be the same person he knew before.

But he’s here. In front of him. Breathing. And the planes of his face are the same, and his stupid bitten nails are the same, and the crease between his eyebrows that never seems to smooth out is the same, and Lance is still happy to be in his orbit. Thank god he’s still there to orbit at all.

* * *

“Lance?”

Lance is dozing, but jerks awake when Keith says his name. It’s dark out, now. He’s only left for an hour or so, to eat, to see Allura, to put on real clothes. Across from him, Shiro dozes in his own chair, propped up against the wall beside the window.  Keith looks at him, eye glinting in the darkness. He looks exhausted, face pinched and pale in the dim light.

“Keith?”

“It hurts.”

“I can call a doctor. You’re on painkillers. They’re probably wearing off.”

Keith shakes his head, grimacing. “I feel clearer. We’re on Altea?”

Lance nods, then realizes Keith might not be able to see him through the dark. “Yeah. You’re safe. I’m here, your mom’s here, Shiro’s here.”

Keith’s expression clouds. “Shiro.”

“Yeah. He’s right here.”

Keith rolls his head to look at Shiro, still dead to the world despite their quiet voices. Lance wonders when the last time he actually laid down in a bed was. 

“I yelled at him,” Keith says quietly, swallowing. “I called him Kuron. I told him I’d kill him if he hurt me.”

He’s not sure what to say to that. “It’s Shiro. Not the clone.”

“I know that,” Keith says, sounding slightly mulish. The annoyance in his voice buoys Lance’s spirits. He sounds more like himself, at least. “I didn’t, then.” He sounds sad again abruptly, unsure of himself.

“It’s okay. He knows.”

“He’s still here.”

“He wouldn’t leave you.”

Keith swallows again, but it catches on a cough. Lance reaches forward, offering water, and Keith takes it, tries to push himself into a sitting position, falls back with a gasp of pain. Lance leans forward, lifts his head up, and holds the glass to his lips.

When Keith waves him away and Lance returns the cup to the beside table, he says again, “I should call the doctor. You shouldn’t be in pain.”

“I’d rather be hurting than think I’m back there.” He swallows again, gaze darting around the room. “My feet?”

“What?”

“I can tell they’re not healed. And my eye’s bandaged. I know I went in a pod—I think I did. What’s wrong with them?”

“I—another reason I should call a doctor.”

Keith looks at him. “Just tell me, Lance. I don’t want the doctor.”

Lance sighs, swallows, has to look away. It’s too much to meet Keith’s gaze and tell him. “A lot of your injuries were already healed over, too old for the pods to fix. It still healed a lot, stopped you from bleeding too much, but…your eye was mostly healed already. Your feet are…”

“Fucked,” Keith finishes for him. “I know. I knew most of it already. Even if I got out, a lot of it wouldn’t be fixable.” He closes his eye again. “They cut my face the first week. They never treated it, kept splitting it open over and over again so it wouldn’t heal right. The feet are…it’s been a long time. I tried to escape right after they captured me. They laughed when they caught me, dragged me back to the cells, told me I’d never be able to run again. They held me down—they didn’t even ask me any questions while they were doing it, they just—“ He cuts himself off abruptly, fingers clenched in the sheets. Lance leans forward, hand hovering just over Keith’s shoulder. “You don’t have to tell me,” he says. “You don’t have to explain. Can I touch you?”

Keith nods, eye still squeezed shut. Lance settles his hand on his shoulder, wonders if the touch is grounding for Keith or just a reminder of other hands, unwanted, hurting him. 

“I knew they wouldn’t heal,” Keith says again, quieter this time. “They didn’t want me to run anywhere ever again, and I won’t now. They wanted to make sure, even if I got away, I wouldn’t be able to keep causing trouble.”

“Hey,” Lance hisses, tightening his hand on his shoulder. “It’s not a lost cause. The doctors think they can use skin grafts, they’re optimistic. I can’t really explain it because I don’t really understand it, but they’ll tell you soon. Don’t write it off yet.”

Keith sighs and opens his eye. “How? I know what they look like. I can _feel_ them.”

“I wouldn’t lie to you just to make you feel better. I’m not that nice to you.”

Keith looks at him. His lips twitch, not a smile, but something approximating one. “No. I know you’re not.”

“The doctors will do a better job explaining, anyway,” Lance says, looking away. Keith nods, gaze sliding back to Shiro.

“Do you want me to wake him up? He’d want to see you, if he knew you were awake.”

Keith shakes his head. “I can tell he hasn't been sleeping. Let him rest.” He closes his eye again, exhaustion deep in the lines of his face. “I don’t know if I can talk to him right now, anyway.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean…I don’t know what to say to him. Or you, or anyone. I don’t know how to explain what happened. It was stupid. I’m so stupid.”

“You don’t owe anyone an explanation,” Lance says firmly. “And you’re not stupid! You were targeted and captured and that’s not your fault!”

Keith sighs tiredly. “There’s more. Things I should have noticed, maybe I could have fought them off.” His breath hitches. “Rax…”

Lance’s ears perk up at the name, familiar, but he can’t pin down where he knows it from. “Rax? Who?”

Keith eye snaps open and he glares at Lance, manner utterly changed, so quickly it startles Lance. “I’m not going to tell you anything. I don’t care what you do to me!”

“Woah, woah, I’m sorry, Keith. I didn’t mean—it doesn’t matter! You don’t need to tell me anything.”

Keith narrows his eye. “You thought you could trick me, pretend to be…pretend to be him…” His eyelid flutters, face washed in an alarming shade of pale. Lance lurches forward, hands fluttering uselessly over him. “Keith? Keith? Can you hear me?”

“Stay…stay away…” he slumps back into the pillows, motionless and one of the machines on the wall behind the bed starts beeping wildly. Lance curses and hits the call button for the nurse and Shiro jolts upright in his chair.

“What’s going on?”

“He woke up for a second, seemed okay, and then something changed and he didn’t know where he was and then he passed out, I don’t know!”

Shiro stands, leaning over Keith. “Keith? Keith, wake up!”

“I don’t think that’s going to work,” Lance starts as a doctor and nurse hurry into the room, pushing them away from the bed. The fiddle around with something, their bodies blocking Lance’s view, and the beeping stops. After a few more moments and some low conversation he can’t quite make out, they step away from the bed. “Was he awake?” the doctor asks.

Lance nods. “Just for a few minutes.”

“You should have called immediately. The pain medication has fully worn off, and that puts stress on his body. He essentially had a panic response and passed out.”

“He said he didn’t want the medicine,” Lance replies. “He was lucid when he woke up, he knew where he was. He said the medicine confuses him.”

The doctor shakes her head. “We can test some other medicines in the next few days. In the meantime, we’ve given him another dose of what he’s been on. We will see his state when he next wakes, at which point I would appreciate it if you called us so we can actually take stock of his condition.”

Lance nods meekly and when they leave he follows. He’s twitchy and frightened, mind playing back the moment when Keith went from aware to hallucinating. Maybe he needs some sleep himself. There’s not much he can do to help if he’s exhausted, after all.

* * *

Over the next few days, Keith wakes many times, but never lucid. His fever spikes, and they stick him back in a pod for a few vargas, though it doesn’t help much. The doctors aren’t sure why he’s not more lucid—they’ve changed his pain medication, and he’s no longer dangerously dehydrated or malnourished. When he wakes, he calls them Galra, he curses at them, he refuses to answer questions. More often, he won’t say anything at all, shying away from them, trembling at the slightest touch.

Allura forces them into meetings, to distract them. In reality, there is a lot to meet about—she’s dealing with a diplomatic crisis and frightened allies, advisors questioning how they all could have been unaware of the forces gathering in the Laurentian system, or lose track of a warlord as powerful as Ranveig. The Alliance seethes with distrust, people are less willing to accept help from the Blades than ever, and no one knows where to start when it comes to the Laurentians. Lance wants to be helpful, but he’s so distracted worrying about Keith he can barely keep track of the conversation in meetings. He steals away to sit with Keith often, even though he’s usually asleep, and if he’s awake it’s only heartbreaking.

The doctors decide to go ahead with the skin grafts for Keith’s feet with Krolia and Shiro’s approval, since Keith isn’t lucid enough to decide for himself. They take skin from his belly and cover the burns on his feet, knitting them together with some sort of hi-tech quintessence-laced gel. They leave the grafts uncovered for the first few days, and Lance nearly pukes again when he sees them—the idea that the fragile skin stretched over the grotesque burns is expected to grow over and into the minimal skin that remains on his feet, the idea that the skin is from Keith himself, the need for it further damaging his already battered body, rather than something synthetic—Alteans have synthetic materials for this, of course, but with Keith’s unique biology, they were unsure they could engineer something that would grow naturally into his body. They can’t put him in a pod for longer than a few hours to heal the wounds on his belly, either—they’re worried the accelerated healing would result in stiff, scarred skin that would be as difficult to walk on as the burns themselves. Despite how horrible the feet look, swollen and red, the doctors seem pleased, so Lance tries to seem pleased, too. Mostly, he tries not to look at them, and he’s grateful when they’re finally covered with light bandages.

And still, Keith doesn’t wake up. They lower his medication, they do test after test. They still say the prognosis is good, but now they say it with a strain in their voices. They don’t know why he isn’t waking up, and they don't know why, when he does, he’s still hallucinating.

Krolia thinks it’s the drug. “He’s half human, and it was synthesized for Galra,” she says for the hundredth time over dinner. He’s not sure she’s slept more than a few hours since they left Laurent. “That’s what he said made him hallucinate while he was captive.”

“It’s been over a week,” Hunk says, yawning. “Movement. Whatever. Anyway, any drug they gave him should be out of his system by now, right?”

“It might be different. His biology has the potential to change the effects of any toxin.”

“It’s useless to wonder,” Shiro says dully. “The doctors still say he’s recovering well.”

And they move on, all unwilling to keep up the train of thought, which quickly runs down the rabbit hole of _what if he doesn’t recover at all? What if he was rescued only to die, or spend the rest of his life not knowing where he is?_ Lance clings on to the memory of Keith, lucid, knowing where he was and what had happened. Part of him can’t help but blame himself—that question, _Rax? Who?_ sent Keith spiraling down into his own mind and Lance is the one who asked it. He’s never said it out loud, but maybe Keith’s regression is his fault. He’d been desperate to see Keith, desperate to talk to him, and what if it only made things worse?

* * *

Lance is sitting in on a meeting with Allura and some Blade members, detailing the rescue mission for what feels like the millionth time, when there’s a knock on the door and it slides open to reveal Krolia.

“Ah, Krolia,” says one of the Blade members—they haven’t taken their masks off the whole meeting, so Lance is having difficulty remembering whose name is what—“It is good to see you.”

Krolia inclines her head. “And you, Urak.” Nice. She turns to Allura. “Keith is awake, and lucid.”

Lance jumps to his feet, his chair clattering to the floor behind him. “What? When?”

“Just for a few minutes.” Her voice is gravely with exhaustion, but she smiles, thin and hopeful. “He’s very tired, but knows where he is and who we are. He has little memory of the last week. The last thing he remembers is going into a pod.”

Lance nearly trips over the chair in his haste to get to the door. He hasn’t seen Keith for more than a moment for the last few days, his self-imposed bedside vigil interrupted by meetings and reports and the simple dread of being there when Keith wakes up, confused and angry and calling him Galra, calling him a traitor. Now, if he’s awake, really awake, Lance needs to see him. He’s nearly out the door before he remembers he’s halfway through a mission report, and looks back to Allura for permission. She sighs and nods. “Go. I’ll be there soon. If he is able to separate the past from the present, I have some questions for him.”

Lance is out of the room before she finishes talking, sprinting out of the palace and over the long bridge to the hospital in the new Altean city. Shiro’s outside of Keith’s room, leaned against the wall talking into a comm, but he hangs up when he sees Lance. His eyes are glistening, and when Lance gets close enough he sees he’s been crying. His excitement dries up in an instant. “What’s wrong?” he pants, finally slowing to a stop.

Shiro smiles. “Nothing.” Then he’s grabbing Lance in a crushing hug, so tight his feet lift off the ground a little. When he pulls back, he’s grinning. “He woke up, and he’s okay. He remembers us, remembers what happened, remembers where he is. It was that stupid drug. Krolia was right, it wasn’t out of his system entirely. They finally ran a test that detected trace amounts still in his bloodstream, and were able to give him something to counteract its effects. It was the drug all along, keeping him confused, and it’s out now, so he really should be fine.”

Lance wilts in relief against the wall. “You’re crying…I thought—“

Shiro shakes his head. “Just happy. Sorry. I need to pull myself together.” He swipes at his eyes with the back of his hand. “You wanna go in?”

Lance nods and they enter together. To Lance’s disappointment, Keith isn’t sitting up, alert, he’s still lying down and appears asleep again. He’s no longer the color of the sheets, though, nor is he flushed with fever. His skin has a healthier color to it, and his breathing seems easier than before. Shiro crosses the room and lightly rests a hand on Keith’s shoulder. He stirs, and opens his eye.

“Hey,” Shiro says softly. “Lance is here.”

Keith’s eye darts to Lance. He smiles, and even though it’s small and he still looks like shit, the sight of it triggers a hot wash of relief. He crosses the room quickly and reaches out without thinking, stopping himself a moment before he grabs onto Keith’s hand. His fingers hover right above Keith’s, and Keith turns his own hand palm up and reaches up to tangle Lance’s fingers in his own. His palm is warm—not too warm, like it’s been, not deathly cold, like when they found him, but just right. Keith’s warmth. 

Lance drops into the chair next to him, suddenly exhausted. He feels wrung out, washed hollow with relief, and his months of little sleep all seem to catch up with him at once, leaving him lightheaded. 

“You look like shit,” Keith says softly, voice cracking a little from disuse.

Lance chokes on a laugh. “Look who’s talking.”

“I don’t know,” Keith says. “I think I probably look great. Have you slept at all?”

“Not much,” he admits. 

“I’m surprised you haven’t gone home,” Keith says carefully, gaze sliding away. Lance sits up from his slump. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Keith makes to pull his hand away, but Lance grips it tighter. “I just mean…the battle’s over. I’m okay. I thought you’d want to be back. I know this can’t have been easy for you.”

Lance bristles at the implication in Keith’s tone. “I’ve been fine. It’s been fine. I haven’t fallen apart. In fact, I’ve been doing really well, and I haven’t wanted to go home, so don’t treat me like I’m something fragile who you can’t believe made it out of his house without having a breakdown.”

“Lance,” Keith says. “Don’t do this. I just mean—you don’t have to stay for me. If that’s why you’re still here.”

“Well I—oh.” His anger leaves him in a rush and he’s left feeling more exhausted than before. He stares down at their hands, at Keith’s ragged fingernails. “I don’t want to go,” he says. “I want to be with you.”

Keith’s eye widens. It feels like he’s standing on the edge of a precipice, a fast-running river far below, ready to suck him under and push him far into the unknown if he jumps. He remembers a dream he had, while Keith was still missing. He unlocked a room and Keith was inside. He looked up, saw Lance, smiled. Lance walked up to him, said “I missed you”, and kissed him. And Keith kissed back. And then Lance woke up with a boner and tears streaming down his cheeks.

Lance looks at Keith, his dry lips, the dark circle under his one visible eye, the way he holds himself carefully, betraying obvious pain. In his dreams, Lance found Keith and told him how he felt. In his dreams, they smiled at each other, kissed, ran their hands down each other’s bodies, and then the dreams ended. In the dreams, Keith was whole and healthy. 

In reality, Keith is tired and injured and traumatized. A day ago he didn’t even recognize Lance. And as much as Lance wants to jump off that precipice and let the river sweep him away, he can’t lay that on Keith right now. Maybe he’s a coward. But he can’t.

He clears his throat, looks away. “It would be hard to leave now, anyway. Matt went back to Earth, but the rest of us are all here, dealing with what happened. Things are kind of a mess. So even if I wanted to go home, which I don’t yet, I couldn’t really.”

“Oh,” Keith says. Can he detect a hint of disappointment in his voice? “Well, it’s nice you’re here. I don’t want you to think I don’t want to see you or anything. You just look tired.”

“I didn’t think you meant that,” Lance says. “I am, though.”

“You should go get some sleep.”

If he leaves Keith now sleep will be as impossible as ever. He’ll be worried this entire conversation was a dream. “Nah, I’m okay. I’ll stay, unless you want me to go.”

“Okay,” Keith says, voice heavy with sarcasm. “You're okay. Sure.” Then, quieter—“I don’t mind if you stay.”

In reality, his eyelids are getting heavier by the second. He leans back in the chair, still holding Keith’s hand, and sighs as Shiro comes back into the room, talking to Keith about something he can’t really bother following. He dozes off, wakes to his chin hitting his chest and Keith looking at him with amusement. “You’re a liar,” he says smugly. “At least put your head down.” He pats the bed with his free hand and Lance is too tired to think deeply about it. He leans forward and pillows his head on his arm next to Keith’s hip, lets his eyes close. He drifts off to the feeling of fingers in his hair, which is strange, because Keith usually isn’t that affectionate or tactile with him. Though he was becoming increasingly so, if Lance thinks about it, in the months before his disappearance.

He can’t dwell on it for long, though, because the slow strokes through his hair send him spiraling down into sleep, comforted by the warmth of Keith’s body through the blankets, by the low murmur of his voice and Shiro’s, by the weight of his hand. He sleeps, and for the first time in a long time, the dreams stay at bay.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I want to say thank you to everyone who's commented on this fic so far. I'm very bad at replying to comments, which is something I'm going to try to be better about, but please know I read and appreciate every single one. Your engagement and feedback on this story is really driving me to the finish line, so thank you all so much for reading and telling me what you think. 
> 
>  
> 
> [Come say hi on tumblr.](https://prevalent-masters.tumblr.com)


	9. Verdant

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter warnings: Discussions of torture and graphic injuries, a brief mention of sexual assault (not against any of the characters).
> 
> Enjoy this 20,000 word installment. I cannot control myself.

Lance sleeps for a few hours, hunched over and uncomfortable, and wakes disoriented to low voices. He blinks his eyes open to Allura and two Blade members crowded around the bed, staring down at them. Keith’s still dead asleep next to him, but Lance can tell from the set of Allura’s mouth that she’s done waiting for answers.

“No,” he says thickly, sitting up and rubbing sleep from his eyes, making to pull his hand away and stopping when he realizes Keith is clinging to him like a limpet. “Let him sleep.”

Allura shakes her head, mouth turned in a frown. “I am sorry, Lance. We’ve waited too long already. He has information we need.”

“But he might start hallucinating again—“

“I’m sorry,” one of the Blade members says, not sounding sorry at all, and steps forward to give Keith’s shoulder a firm shake. Lance opens his mouth to protest, but it’s too late—Keith jerks out of sleep like someone stabbed him, entire body tensing, eye darting around the room desperately. His gaze lands on Allura, and for a split second his eye widens, breath coming in quick pants before he relaxes slightly. His fingers clench and his gaze latches onto Lance’s. He gets out a small smile before Allura starts talking.

“Keith,” she says gently. “Can you tell us what happened?”

Keith just blinks at her, looks confused. “I’m sorry,” she adds. “I know you’re tired and still don’t feel well. And I know it might be painful for you to recall, but we need your help. We must understand what happened, and you are our only source to fill in several blanks. Specifically, how you were captured. Can you help us? And then you can sleep for as long as you need, I promise.”

Keith blinks, groggy, moves his head on the pillow a bit and winces. He licks his lips and stares off into the distance. 

“We made it off planet,” he starts, voice a thready, cracked thing. “We were on our way out. Almost to the checkpoint. I was getting ready to call them, actually, I wanted to get some extra fuel for the return journey. I was in the cockpit. My second in command for the mission was Varit. She was standing right behind me, I was talking to her. And then she coughed, and I thought it sounded strange. I turned around and she was just standing there, looking down at her chest, and it—she—there was a sword sticking out of her. A Marmoran blade. She fell down and behind her…it was Rax. He was a newer recruit. Had ties to the Laurentian system, which is why we brought him.” Keith squeezes his eye shut. “Stupid. I was so stupid.”

“Rax,” growls one of the Blade members. “I knew he was bad news, I told Kolivan—“

“We couldn’t have known for sure,” the other Blade says softly, stepping forward out of the shadows and deactivating their mask. It’s Axca, her expression broken open as she stares down at Keith on the bed. She sets her hand on his shoulder. “Still, that mission should have been staffed only with senior Blades. It was dangerous enough. Keith, Rax was among the dead. How did they blow up the ship?”

He licks his lips. His eye doesn’t open. “Water?” Lance offers softly, and he nods. Lance holds the glass to his lips and he drinks deeply before coughing a little and waving it away.

“I couldn’t get to my blade fast enough,” he says. “Rax hit me on the head. I woke up in a cell back on Laurent. I was so confused—I couldn’t remember what happened, it took me a long time to even figure out where I was. They must have given me a dose of that drug right when they brought me in, or I had a concussion…probably both. My blade was gone. I don’t know how long I was in there. Eventually, Ranveig came. They interrogated me. Wanted to know everything about the Blade, the Alliance, the elections on Daibazaal. I didn’t tell them anything for a long time, but eventually they gave me more of the drug and I—“ his face screws up again and he finally opens his eye, looking at Allura with something like desperation shining through. “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry Allura. I don’t even know what I told them. I still can’t—I don’t remember a lot, from being drugged. They started out interrogating me but after I tried to escape I think they kept me drugged almost all the time.”

Allura finds his hand and squeezes fiercely. “Don’t apologize. Don’t you dare.”

He swallows, looks away. “I kept seeing you all. Like you were visiting me. Thought you were coming to help, but you weren’t. I still think—I can’t tell—I know—“

“This is real,” Lance says, low and firm, squeezing Keith’s hand. “I promise, Keith.”

“I know,” he says, but he won't meet their eyes. “I know now.”

Axca sighs, and drops down into the chair on the other side of the bed. “I still don’t understand how they got you from the ship back to Laurent, how the ship ended up blown up.”

“That part hardly matters, in the long run,” Allura says, rubbing her forehead. “Keith. From our understanding, the Laurentians were by and large uninvolved with Ranveig or the rebellion. He had control over their leaders, and most were acting under duress. Many helped us fight Ranveig’s forces on Ostia. But it is…difficult to know how to deal with them now. Were Laurentians ever interrogating or interacting with you? Or…hurting you?” She stutters, wincing as she says it. It’s like she tried to say the word _torture_ and it simply wouldn’t come out.

“I…I don’t think so. I can’t remember it all, but I remember mostly Galra. Ranveig stopped coming after awhile, after I tried to escape. I think that’s when they, uh. Got a lot of information from me. I was drugged, and my feet—I—it all hurt so badly. I don’t know what I said. But after that, I don’t remember seeing Ranveig, or anyone else that often. I got food and water, and every so often someone would come in and—um. Well, they didn’t ask me any more questions. I don’t remember any Laurentians, unless they were bringing me food.”

“Every so often someone would come in and _what_?” Lance asks, almost unaware of his own voice. Static sings in his ears and he has tunnel vision ending in Keith’s face. His grip on his hand had tightened briefly when he’d spoken, and the horror of what he might not be saying rises up to drown him.

“What? I—oh. _Oh_.” Keith, bless him, seems to read what Lance is thinking just from a glance at his face. “No, Lance, it’s okay, nothing like that, nothing that bad—just, they’d come in if they were bored, I think, and wanted a punching bag. Sometimes they’d give me a sword and tell me to defend myself, but I was so fucked up from the drugs I could barely even hold it, and I couldn’t stand because of my feet, so they just—played with me.” He winces, gaze darting away like he’s ashamed. “That’s how the eye happened—they cut it the first week, while they were questioning me, and then later they used it as target practice. They’d all try to hit the same spot.”

Nausea rises at the thought—Keith, confused, hurt, alone, holding a sword and trying to defend himself against laughing Galra, backed into a corner. Blood running down his cheek. Anger curls in his stomach, but it’s accompanied by relief. That shouldn’t be what he’s feeling while Keith’s lying here detailing his own torture, but that’s what he feels. Complete, absolute relief because at least, on top of everything else, Keith wasn’t _raped_. He puts a hand over his eyes and dimly realizes it’s shaking. 

“It’s okay,” Keith tells him again, which is fucking ridiculous because not only is absolutely nothing _okay;_ Lance is also not the person who should be getting comfort from Keith right now.  ****

“Alright,” Allura says, looking a little shaky herself. “Well, that answers some of our questions. One other question—Krolia was sure you were dead. She said they showed her your body and tossed you out of the airlock in front of her.”

Keith shrugs and winces at the movement. “I—I don’t know. Maybe it was a body double? I remember them telling me they’d killed her, but I never saw her body. They drugged her, too, though. Maybe it was a hallucination.”

Axca shakes her head. “It was probably one of the other Blades they captured. One they killed. It would have been easy enough to pass off one of our smaller operatives as Keith, especially if Krolia was drugged and confused. Sick bastards.”

Keith clears his throat. “Um. The Laurentians knew, though. I think they were orchestrating the capture while we were carrying out our mission. Um, it seemed like the checkpoint was compromised since before our mission, and I think a Laurentian pod was tailing us after we left. I noticed something but I didn’t think anything of it. There’s a fair bit of traffic to and from Laurent, I thought it was just a supply ship or transport pod. I think they got me after Rax knocked me out and then took me back to Laurent and handed me over to Ranveig. And…and Rax blew up the ship. I don’t know if it was a suicide mission or if he just botched it and didn’t get out in time. That’s just based on bits and pieces I heard later. It’s, uh—it’s been a long time since they asked me any questions. I think they were just holding me because they knew I could be a valuable bargaining chip. But ultimately, Ranveig wanted me out of the way, as well as any other high ranking Blade. He thought I was going to be the next leader of Daibazaal. He wanted to kill me, so he could go back and take Daibazaal for himself, build up the empire again. He was never going to let me go, or exchange me as a hostage. It was only a matter of time before he, uh. He killed me.”

His eye droops with exhaustion by the time he finishes talking. Next to him, Axca springs out of her chair and starts pacing up and down the tiny room. Allura sighs and rubs her eyes again. The other Blade shifts uncomfortably.

“Is this threat against high-ranking Blades still something to be concerned with?” he asks. “Should we be increasing security measures?”

“There’s always going to be someone who wants power over Daibazaal,” Keith says tiredly, not opening his eye. “Ranveig’s gone, and so is his rebellion, but there are plenty of other Galra loyalists who’ve undoubtedly slipped through our radar. We can’t ever drop our guard.” He blinks his eye open. “You should be careful, Axca. They know about you. I heard them talking. You were on their hit list.”

His eye closes again and he sighs. Lance rubs a thumb against the back of his hand, trying to soothe. 

“We should take our leave,” the Blade says. “Report back to Kolivan. It is of my opinion that Laurent should suffer retribution. Whether or not they were all in league with Ranveig, they willingly delivered our brethren into his hands, which lead to their torture and deaths. That, to me, is unforgivable, especially after we gave them our aid.”

Allura inclines her head. “That is understandable, Vasha. Your arguments will be considered. Thank you.”

He leaves, and Axca turns to follow. Before leaving, she sets her hand back on Keith’s shoulder. “Kolivan wanted to be here,” she says. “He's been crushed with work on Daibazaal, but know he is glad you are safe.”

Keith opens his eye and musters a tiny smile. “I understand. Tell him thank you.”

Axca hovers for a moment, seemingly wrestling with what to say. Eventually, she sighs, leans down, and bumps her forehead against Keith’s. He raises a hand and grips her by the back of the neck, holding her to him. “Know I am glad, too.”

“Thank you,” Keith whispers, and Axca nods, standing back up and striding out the door without another word. Lance stares after her. Who knew Axca—stony, silent Axca—was capable of such tenderness? He knew she and Keith have worked closely together in the last few years, running dozens of missions, but still…something sour and uncomfortable twists in his stomach, something a lot like jealousy. 

Allura clears her throat and rests a hand on Keith’s shoulder. “Thank you, Keith. This was very helpful. You should rest, now, but I just—“ she bites her lip, struggling for something to say. Eventually, she lands on, “I’m so sorry we didn’t get to you sooner.” Then she leans down and presses a kiss to his forehead. Keith smiles at her as she rises. “You came,” he says. “That’s all that matters.”

Allura looks like she’s about to cry. “That’s not true. None of it should have happened at all.” She closes her eyes briefly, takes a deep breath. “But thank the gods we got to you in time.” She squeezes Lance’s shoulder briefly, and then turns to the door. “I will see you all shortly, I’m sure. Rest. It’s late. Lance, you should find a bed.”

“I’m okay,” he replies automatically. Allura just gives him a knowing smile and sweeps out, leaving the room silent and dark behind her. Keith sighs and shifts, finally pulling his hand away from Lance’s to itch at the place where the IV pricks the back of his hand. Lance pulls his hand back gently, but lets go when Keith stops messing with it. “How are you feeling?” he asks.

“I’m tired of people asking me that,” Keith says grumpily, and Lance’s heart swells unexpectedly because _there’s_ the Keith he knows. “I feel like shit.”

“Do you want some pain meds?”

He shakes his head. “They make me feel weird.”

“You shouldn’t have to be in pain.”

“I don’t want them.”

Lance rolls his eyes. “You are such a stubborn idiot, you know that?”

Keith glares at him and doesn’t say anything, but the impact of the expression is slightly lessened by how exhausted he looks. “You can go back to sleep,” Lance says. “You should. Pain meds would help.”

“I know,” Keith grumbles, and shifts around more in the bed. “I still don’t want them.”

“Can I help in some other way?”

Keith scowls. “I just want to turn on my side, but this fucking IV isn’t long enough and my feet hurt every time I move. And what happened to my stomach? Why does it hurt?”

“That’s where the skin grafts for your feet came from,” Lance replies. “Does it hurt? The pod should have healed those wounds.”

Keith frowns again. “Not bad. Just tender.” He stops fidgeting, sighs, slumps back on his pillow. Lance sighs too and stands, moving around to the other side of the bed. “The IV isn’t too short. Just turn this way.” He tugs at Keith’s shoulder a bit to get him moving and Keith resists. He won’t meet his eyes, and a flush rises on his cheekbones.

“What, you don’t want to now?”

Keith mumbles something into the pillow that Lance can’t hear and he leans closer. “What?”

“Nothing,” Keith says louder, and rolls over, wincing, as Lance holds the IV out of the way. 

“Better?” Lance asks.

“Yeah,” Keith says almost reluctantly, and closes his eye, tugging at the blankets a bit. Lance pulls them up over his shoulders and drops into the other chair so he can still see Keith’s face. 

Keith blinks his eye open to look at him. “You’ll stay?”

“Yeah.”

His eye droops closed again. “You don’t have to,” he murmurs. 

“We’ve been over this. I’m not letting you out of my sight ever again. You can’t be trusted on your own.”

A flicker of a smile darts across Keith’s face. “You can’t just follow me around forever.”

“Watch me,” Lance says, but Keith’s already asleep.

Turns out it’s a good thing Lance is too stubborn to leave and sleep in a real bed. It means he’s mostly awake a few hours later when Keith stiffens, his breath coming in heavy gasps, and the heart rate monitor picks up. Lance jerks upright in his chair and squints through the darkness to make out Keith’s face. It’s pinched, his hand clenched in a tight fist. He’s not screaming, but he’s definitely dreaming. 

“Keith,” Lance whispers, hands hovering above him, unsure of whether or not to touch. “Keith, wake up.”

No response. Keith just stiffens further, shaking, mouth opening in a silent cry. He looks trapped, panicked. Lance can’t stand it. He grabs Keith’s shoulders and shakes him, hard.

Keith explodes into waking, pushing himself away from Lance’s hands to the corner of the bed, nearly falling off. The IV rips out at the sudden movement and blood wells on his hand, dripping down to stain the white sheets. He’s heaving huge, panicked breaths, eye wide and unseeing. “No,” he mutters, “Please, no, _nonononononono_ —“

“Keith!” Lance says loudly, hands out in front of him, trying to show Keith he’s posing no threat. “Keith, it’s me! It’s Lance! You’re safe!”

Keith trembles, arms wrapped around himself, cringing away from him. He’s still lost in whatever he was dreaming—Lance can make an educated enough guess on what that might be—eye blank and staring, seeing things beyond the corners of the room.

“Keith,” Lance says again, and figures, _why not_ —he goes in slow, gently cupping Keith’s face in his hands, holding him as he cringes away, until he’s resting his forehead on Keith’s, like Axca did. “Wake up,” he says. “You’re safe.”

Keith’s trembling against him still, breath quick, but his eye focuses on Lance after a moment and he stops trying to pull away. 

“Lance?”

“Keith. It’s me. You’re safe.”

All the tension leaves Keith’s body at once and he slumps, half against the wall, half against Lance. “Shit,” he gasps, and then, horrifically—he’s crying.

Keith doesn’t cry, at least not that Lance has seen—not once, not even when things were terrible and hopeless and frightening. Not when Shiro disappeared. Not after he fought the clone. Not when it was all finally over—he remembers them all in a pile in the hangar of the Atlas, crying, but the most he saw was Keith’s shoulders shake once, maybe twice. And now, he's not just crying, he's sobbing, heaving with it, blood running down his arm as he lifts his shaking hands to cover his face.

“Shit, Keith,” Lance breathes, and scrambles up onto the bed, pulling Keith into his arms. It’s awkward—he’s balanced on his knees, and the bed’s too small for both of them, and Keith tries to pull away at first, like he’s embarrassed, but then slumps fully into Lance, burying his head in his shoulder. Lance isn’t sure what to do—Keith is such a different creature than anyone he’s used to comforting—but Keith doesn’t seem to be shying away from their points of contact anymore, so he just smoothes a hand up and down his back, slow and gentle, and mumbles a string of nonsense into his ear—“breathe, it’s me, you’re safe, you’re fine, it’s okay, you're here with me and we’re never going to let anything happen again, it’s okay, it’s okay, you’re safe, you’re safe, you’re safe…”

He’s not sure how much he’s helping, really. He feels totally unprepared, and the telltale signs of panic are stirring in his own stomach. He remembers Keith, with him during his own nightmares. His hand, cool on the nape of his neck. He moves his own hand up to Keith’s neck, rubs tiny circles into his skin, stops babbling and just presses Keith’s head to his chest, right over his heart. Keith’s hands drop from his face and come up to clutch at his shirt, skin damp against Lance’s. Lance buries his nose in Keith’s hair and breathes, willing away his own panic. Sandalwood and soap. Keith’s own breath slows gradually, and, though Lance can’t see his face, he thinks the tears have stopped. They stay there for a long time, though, twined together, until Lance can’t feel his legs anymore and Keith finally pulls away with a grunt, lifting a hand to wipe away tears and smearing blood all over his face. “Sorry,” he mutters, voice nearly gone. “That was—sorry.”

“Don’t apologize,” Lance whispers. He knows he needs to tread lightly, here—Keith won’t appreciate being pitied, or treated like something fragile. “I’m not the one crying, for once.”

Keith laughs, a tiny exhalation, and wipes at his cheeks again, looking down in disgust at his bloody hand. “Always has to be a competition, huh?”

“Yep,” Lance says. “But if the competition is who cries more, I’m very much still in the lead. Got a lot of catching up to do, mullet.”

Keith frowns and tugs at a strand of his hair. “Can’t call me that anymore.”

“You’ll always be a mullet at heart,” Lance says, and reaches up to ruffle Keith’s choppy hair. Keith pushes him away and Lance laughs, gets up off the bed with a groan, and grabs a towel to wipe the blood off Keith’s face and arm. “Gonna have to call someone to put this back in,” he says, gesturing at the IV. “Sorry.”

“’S okay,” Keith mumbles, falling back into the pillows when Lance finishes. “Sorry again.”

“Didn’t I tell you it’s weird when you apologize?”

Keith snorts. “Still.”

Lance hits the call button and settles back down in his chair. “Are you okay?” he asks softly.

Keith shakes his head and stares off at nothing. For a long moment, Lance thinks he’s not going to answer, but then he says, “I dream about it every time I’m asleep. Not getting captured or tortured or anything, but after, when they stopped asking me questions and kept me drugged. I said they came in and, like, played with me. Tried to make me fight them. But I didn’t say I think it happened almost every day. And that’s when I—when I thought it was you guys. I thought you were coming to help me, and then you’d all just shove a sword in my hands and start taking hits at me, and I’d be begging you to stop, and I’d never realize till after, when the drugs wore off a bit, that it wasn’t ever you. But then the next time they gave it to me, I’d forget again and it would start all over. I felt like I was in this time loop I couldn’t get out of.”

Lance realizes he’s clutching Keith’s arm like a lifeline without even remembering reaching for him. He doesn’t know what to say, feels like he might puke if he even opens his mouth. “Fuck, Keith. I—I’m so sorry,” he chokes out.

“Every time I wake up and see you, or Shiro, or Allura, there’s a minute when I’m just waiting for you to hand me a sword and start laughing.”

Nausea rolls in his stomach. No wonder Keith’s so jumpy. Those memories alone would be enough to send him into panic and hallucinations. He’s saved from having to reply by a nurse bustling in and gently nudging him away from the side of the bed to reconnect the IV. He takes the opportunity to escape into the hallway and puke into the nearest trash can, which feels extra gross on Altea where even the trashcans are pristine, white, and somehow beautiful. He stays bent over it for longer than he probably needs to, trying to settle his stomach and his mind. Everything roils unhappily, and not just because of the horrors Keith’s describing or dreaming. Keith’s so stoic, usually, a rock—he doesn’t like people seeing him weak. It’s rare to see him so vulnerable, and the tenuousness of it all terrifies him. 

A hand lands heavy on his shoulder, making him jump. “Are you alright?” Shiro’s voice floats over his back. “Is it something you ate?”

He stands upright again, wiping at his mouth with the back of his hand, and turns to face him. In the dim light of the nighttime hallways, face cast in shadows, Shiro looks old. Much older than his years. Lance doesn’t know what to say to him. He can’t tell him what just happened, he doesn’t want to tell him what Keith told him—that every time he sees them, it takes him a moment of panic before he can remind himself he’s safe. But the tears are coming, burning hot in his eyes, and he has to say something.

“Keith,” he eventually chokes out, and panic flashes across Shiro’s face. “What?” he demands. “Did something happen? Is he okay?”

Lance nods, then shakes his head, then nods again. “Yeah—no, he’s fine, no different, I just—I just, I guess it hit me. He mentioned something else about getting tortured, all offhand, like it barely mattered, and I just—couldn’t handle it.” His fingernails dig into the skin of his palms as he clenches his fists and he backs up against the wall and slides down to sit on the floor, suddenly unsure his legs will continue to hold his weight. “What they did to him…I’m just so fucking _angry!_ We should have stopped them! We should have gotten there sooner!”

Shiro looks at him helplessly, then leans against the wall next to him, slowly sliding down until he’s seated next to Lance, shoulder brushing his. “You can’t blame yourself,” he says eventually. “You were the one trying to get us all to go sooner. Pushing us. I’m to blame, if anyone. I’m the one who gave up on him.”

“No one’s to blame but the Galra, and Laurent,” Lance says viciously. “And I want to kill them all, and that’s horrible of me, because too many people have already died. And I—I can’t even think about the number of people who just died, and how many people I killed during the rescue, or the battle. But then this other part of me—it’s not enough. I still want them all to suffer for what they did to him.”

Shiro stares at his hands, flesh and metal, propped on his knees. “I do, too,” he says eventually. “But he needs us to be here for him. To be strong for him. I don’t think he’s strong enough to see our anger, or our sadness.”

“I know,” Lance says bitterly. “That’s why I left the room to puke.”

Shiro chokes out a laugh and bumps Lance’s shoulder with his own. “Considerate of you. Look. Most of the rebels are already dead, and the ones still alive will be dealt with. And the Laurentians who were culpable for what happened—the leaders, the ones who joined the rebels—will be, too. We have to accept that and focus on helping him. Like I said, he needs us. And besides, you’ve never seen Keith in recovery before. He’s a nightmare. He broke his ankle when he was fourteen and I practically had to tie him down to stop him from walking on it. We’ve got our work cut out for us. You can redirect all your anger at him when he starts refusing to use crutches and trying to go to the bathroom without help.”

Lance laughs and rubs a hand over his burning eyes. “I can imagine. I’m already angry at him for throwing himself into every dangerous situation he can find, I just need a couple more days of relief before that comes back to the surface.”

Shiro chuckles and gets to his feet, groaning. He offers Lance a hand up and clasps his shoulder when he’s standing. “Thank you for being here for him,” he says quietly and Lance suddenly can’t meet his eyes, his expression too open and honest to bear. “He appreciates it more than you know. He was afraid you were going to go back to Earth.”

“I couldn’t,” Lance says.

“I know,” Shiro replies mildly. “I told him. But look—Keith isn’t used to being loved. Not even now. He’s been left behind too many times. So—you’re either here for him, or you’re not. No changing your mind halfway through or deciding it’s too hard.”

He’s smart enough to recognize a thinly-veiled “If you hurt my brother you’ll regret it” warning, and he nods quickly. “I know,” he says. “I’m here. I’m not leaving.”

Shiro gives him a quick smile. “I know. I know you’re not.” Then he ruffles Lance’s hair and turns, heading down the hall away from Keith’s room—probably to bed, like a sane person. Lance, in contrast, goes back to Keith. The nurse is gone, the room dark, Keith still and breathing soft and slow in the bed. He blinks his eye open when Lance sits back in the chair. 

“Go to bed, Lance,” he orders, voice low and tired.

“I’m fine here.”

“So am I. You’re going to get sick or something, not sleeping.”

Lance looks at him. Looks at the tiny bed. Looks at the dark circle under Keith’s one visible eye. “Did you have dreams, when we were sharing a bed?” he asks abruptly. 

Keith’s eyebrows furrow. “What do you mean?”

“When you were visiting me at home, and I had the nightmare. We slept in the same bed after, because it helps me to have someone there. Did you have nightmares, when we did that?”

Keith blinks at him, slow, confused. “I don’t remember.”

Lance makes a decision. It’s absurd—the bed’s too small, Keith could get hurt if he accidentally rolls on top of him or something, it’s probably not going to help, anyway—but Lance is so tired, and lying horizontal sounds amazing, but if he leaves Keith for his own bed in the palace he knows he won’t even be able to close his eyes. “Move over,” he says, sliding off his shoes.

“Lance, what—“

“Move over. We’re sharing this bed. I want to sleep without dreams, you want to sleep without dreams, so we’re gonna give it a try.” He pauses halfway through pulling the covers away from Keith. “That is—unless you don’t want to. If it makes you uncomfortable, or anything like that, then that’s fine.”

“I—no, it doesn’t, but it’s so small, you won’t sleep—“

“It doesn’t? You’re okay with it?”

“Well, I—I—yeah. I guess.”

“Okay,” Lance says, and slides in next to him. It’s a tight squeeze, and Keith winces a little as they maneuver around until they find a position comfortable enough for both of them—Keith on his back, as he was, and Lance curled on his side, right on the edge of the bed. Keith turns his head towards him and they’re so close, face to face on the thin hospital pillow. Keith’s eye is a dark pool he feels himself drowning in.

Gently, he lifts his arm and drapes it carefully over Keith, above the tender spots on his belly. “Is this okay?”

Keith shudders at the contact, but relaxes quickly. “Yeah.”

“Okay.”

“Okay.”

“Goodnight.”

“Goodnight, Lance.”

He’s out like a light. He thinks he hears, as he drifts off, a quiet “thank you”, but he can’t be sure. It might have been just a fragment of a dream.

* * *

Unfortunately, as Shiro warned, Keith goes from “sleeping, mostly” to “absolute monster” in the span of about twenty hours. He’s restless in the morning, when Lance wakes with a dry mouth, pillow creases imprinted on his cheek and Keith shoving at his chest and telling him he’s hungry. Restlessness devolves to grumpiness devolves to anger devolves to full on obstinance by the end of the day, when the doctors inform him he’ll be on bedrest for at least a movement and won’t be walking on his own two feet for a phoeb or more, and perhaps never unless he follows a strictly mandated physical therapy regimen and doesn’t push himself. “Pushing yourself” is pretty much Keith’s mantra in life, so Lance isn’t surprised he comes out of that discussion looking murderous. What he doesn’t expect is Keith to announce the next morning that he’s going home, that no one can stop him, and that he doesn’t need any of them to come with him, he’s fine on his own, thanks very much.

Shiro actually laughs in his face in response, which probably doesn’t improve the overall situation. Keith refuses to speak to any of them for the rest of that day, and Lance, after being unceremoniously ejected from the room when he starts to argue with Keith, thanks to the nurse being worried about Keith getting “too excited”, finally sleeps in a bed that isn’t Keith’s and finds he can barely close his eyes. He wants to get up, to talk to someone, but Allura’s overworked and exhausted, Shiro’s sleeping like the dead in the room next door, and Hunk left for Earth a few days before. Instead, he wanders the hallways of the palace without purpose, lost in memories of doing the same on the Castleship.

He used to run in to Keith all the time during his late night explorations. He wasn’t sure if Keith suffered from insomnia, too, or if he just ran on less sleep than the rest of them. Most often, he’d be in the training room late into the night, but sometimes Lance would come across him on the bridge, staring out at the stars. They never spoke when they ran into each other like that, but they’d often sit together in comfortable silence, until one of them finally left for bed, a quiet “goodnight” the only words exchanged between them. In the early days, when Lance (and he can admit it was all coming from his end now, years later) was desperate to compete against Keith in all things, those quiet moments spent sitting together were the only time they weren’t snapping at each other’s heels. 

Eventually, he makes his way to the dark ballroom, where this all began years ago—the assassin with the lilting accent, the knife with the mark of the Galra Empire. The floor to ceiling windows provide a dazzling view of the night sky, the dense stars of the other side of the galaxy, the bright wink of nearby planets, the two moons, both full—a rare occurrence on Altea, when their cycles align for a few nights. Usually, there are celebrations. Lance wonders if festivals are ongoing outside the close walls of the palace and the hospital. He wouldn’t know if they were, he’s been so wrapped up in Keith.

He sinks down to the floor, staring up at the sky, until he nods off against the cool glass of the windows and eventually hauls himself back to bed.

* * *

“I’ll go,” he hears himself say. “I can go back to Daibazaal with Keith.”

Every eye in the room swivels to stare at him. Shiro and Krolia look skeptical. Allura looks surprised. Keith just looks pissed off, the way he’s looked for the last two days straight. He’s still insisting on going back to Daibazaal, and the doctors are relenting in the face of his unpleasant obstinance. “You can go back,” his main doctor said, “but only if you have someone with you—and I mean _with you_ , in your home, at all times. And you absolutely must follow the physical therapy plan we’ve laid out for you, and visit the doctors regularly.”

“Krolia will be around,” Keith spit in response, refusing to meet anyone’s eyes. “And Kosmo. If I have Kosmo with me, I don’t need anyone else at home.”

“You can’t walk, Keith,” the doctor said patiently. “You need someone with you. Someone who doesn’t have significant outside obligations, and has a higher communication ability than a wolf does.”

Which is when Lance opened his mouth. 

Honestly, he’s not sure why anyone’s surprised. He’s pretty much demonstrated the fact that he’s not leaving Keith on his own any time soon. If he has to follow him to Daibazaal and hover over him for months to outmaneuver his self-destructive tendencies, then so be it.

“No,” Keith says immediately. “No, I don’t want you there.”

He tries not to feel hurt at the reaction. It’s nothing personal, he reasons. Keith would literally argue with someone about the laws of gravity right now, he’s so disagreeable. 

“It makes sense,” he argues. “I’m not doing anything. I’ve already missed this semester of teaching, and it’s almost summer now. I don’t have any reason to be back on Earth until late August for the new semester, and I don’t have anything else going on. I can be there all the time. And I know what happened, I know the treatment plan, I know what the PT deal is, I can, you know…cook.” It’s not the strongest finishing argument, but he thinks he got the point across—it makes sense. Shiro’s already pushed to the edge of his permissible time away from the Garrison, and the rest of them all have other stuff going on in their lives. Lance is the only one without any of that. Sure, he misses his family and Cuba and Earth food, but at this point he’s not going back to Earth unless Keith is, too. 

“I’m coming whether you want me to or not,” he adds, looking at Keith. “You can make it easy or difficult.”

“I don’t _need_ Lance,” Keith says to the doctor, a wild look in his eye. One might read it as anger, but Lance sees it more as panic. “I don’t need anyone!”

“Daibazaal is…different from here, or Earth,” Krolia says slowly. “I don’t believe you’ve visited yet, is that correct?”

Lance nods. 

“I may take some getting used to. You will be seen as an outsider there.”

“I don’t care.”

“I don’t want you to, Lance,” Keith says, finally talking to him directly. Pleading. “Please.”

“Why are you fighting this so hard?” Lance finally bursts out. “Literally, what’s the issue?”

“You belong back on Earth! You should go back to your family!”

“ _You’re_ part of my family!” Lance yells at him, which is a great start for their peaceful cohabitation. The doctor shakes her head. Keith opens his mouth, stares at Lance, closes it.

“I’m going.” Lance says, not allowing for further argument. “I’ll see you there.” Then, sensing he’s about to get kicked out of the room by the doctor anyway, he leaves. He’s halfway down the corridor when he hears footsteps hurrying behind him. 

“Lance!” Shiro calls, and he stops, but doesn’t turn around. Shiro catches up to him, Krolia on his heels. 

“Don’t take it personally,” Shiro says. “He doesn’t want anyone there. He probably just doesn’t want you to see him like this.”

“Yeah, I got that. And it’s too late. I’ve seen him like this already, and it hasn’t made me feel any different about him. Or made me want to leave.”

“He’ll get over it,” Krolia says. “But, Lance—are you sure? It’s a commitment."

Lance turns back to Shiro. “You said no changing my mind halfway through.”

Shiro looks torn. “Right, but—there wouldn’t be any betrayal in going back to Earth now if you wanted to. I want him to come to Earth, anyway. I could work on him.”

“I’d rather he do that, too,” Krolia chimes in. “I think Daibazaal is a more difficult place to recover.”

Shiro rubs his forehead. “It makes sense, I guess. He wants something familiar, and it’s the most familiar place to him now.”

“Yes,” Krolia allows, but she doesn’t look happy about it.

Lance sighs too, and leans against the wall. “I can go now. Or tomorrow. I can get there first, make sure the apartment’s clean and we have some supplies, be there when he gets there. I don't know how many times I have to say it, but I don’t want to go back to Earth. I want to stay with him, and if I can convince him to go to Earth, I’ll go with him. But I’m not leaving him now, and everyone’s just going to have to accept that."

“Alright,” Shiro sighs. “I trust you with him, for the record.”

Krolia nods. “As do I. And I’ll be there. I plan to request a leave from Blade missions while he recovers, but I still have duties that I’ll need to attend to. I can be of assistance, though.”

Lance nods, already tired of all the discussion. Now that the decision is made, he just wants to be there. Shiro must sense his annoyance, because he waves him off. “Go pack,” he says. “You can leave later today if you like. We’ll bring him tomorrow, if the doctor okays it.”

He nods and goes back to his room in the palace, gathering his meagre possessions—just a few shirts and pairs of underwear, his communicator, a jacket. He wants to feel anger over Keith’s reaction, his treatment, but he can’t muster any. _Keith isn’t used to being loved,_ Shiro had said. Lance knows, deep down, that this is Keith’s test for him, a last-ditch effort to protect himself by lashing out in case Lance turns out to be the type who leaves, too. Keith was always good at that, even as he loved others so fully—distancing himself, insulating himself with his projected loner personality, his standoffishness, his need to push himself above and beyond anyone else. Lance remembers with discomfort when he left to join the Blade permanently—Lance’s anger at him, at his betrayal of the team. Under the anger, a current of fear, of protectiveness, of love. And under all that—the tiniest bit of surprise, because it had seemed like Keith was happier, lately, more comfortable with all of them. Stretched thin by Blade missions and Voltron duties, stressed about his place as the team leader, but happy. Teasing Pidge, helping Hunk in the kitchen, swimming with Lance every so often. He would make Allura laugh, he would cheer Shiro up, he was the only one willing to listen to Coran’s meandering stories with patience and interest instead of exasperation. And, with all that, he’d just leave? Give it up?

He thinks he understands now. Was Keith afraid of letting them any closer? Of tearing down any more of his carefully constructed walls? Was leaving a test—one they all failed?

He’s made mistakes with Keith before. Too many to count. Too many to deserve his trust. But he’s not going to make a mistake this time. He won’t fail this test.

He goes to Daibazaal without saying goodbye to anyone but Allura and Romelle. He’ll see Keith soon, whether Keith likes it or not, and he’d rather not have the fresh taste of Keith’s anger in his mouth when he does. The planet is as he imagined, as he always saw in pictures and video feeds. Lit by the dim purple light of its distant sun, it’s cast in perpetual twilight and it’s _cold_. Lance starts shivering the moment he steps off the transport and hopes fervently that Keith’s apartment has some form of heating, though it finally explains why Galra seem to run so warm and have so much fur. It must be an adaptation to their home environment, carried on in their genes for thousands of years after the planet was destroyed. He gets plenty of stares at the space port and as he asks for directions and catches what must pass as a Galra taxi—a large hoverbike driven by a truly massive cat-eared Galra—to Keith’s apartment building. Everyone here looks at least part Galra—none of the diversity of species he sees on almost every other planet. He supposes it’s not surprising. Few would choose to travel to the home planet of their oppressors.

To his surprise, the city that’s become the de-facto capital, growing up around the buildings the Blade claimed as their headquarters, isn’t as utilitarian or depressing as he expected. He’d thought he’d see a place reminiscent of Galra ships—dark metal, intimidating architecture, function over form, always. It’s true that there’s very little architectural variation, everything built in the same minimal style—nothing like New Altea, or the variation of buildings on Earth, or Olkarion, or even Laurent. But the shops and homes he passes look almost cozy—small, well lit, streets lined with strange, spidery trees and bushes covered in flowers that remind him of Earth’s ice plants. Stalls open to the street serve food and are crowded with customers eating and drinking, round balls of light like miniature suns floating above and illuminating doorways and tables. Music spills from somewhere, discordant, with no instruments Lance can recognize, but still pleasing.

Keith’s apartment, on the other hand, is tiny and barren, far more spartan than Lance would expect for someone of his position, but, then again, the Galra are a spartan sort, even in peacetime. The main room is smaller than Lance’s bedroom at home, a kitchenette along one wall, divided from the rest of the room by a counter. A small couch sits marooned in the center of the room, no other furniture around it. Nothing on the walls save for a hook by the door, a dog leash and the blue jacket Keith was wearing when he came to Altea so long ago hanging on it. 

The apartment remains dim even after he flicks on an overhead light, which washes the room in a purple glow that reminds him too much of Galra battleships. Thankfully, it is warmer inside than both the battleships and the outside temperature.

He makes his way down a short hallway leading to a tiny bathroom just large enough for a toilet and a shower, and the bedroom. Small bed, one pillow. Grey blanket on a bare mattress, no sheets. A softer-looking knit red blanket neatly folded at the end of the bed. A pile of paperbacks on the floor, mostly old Earth sci-fi— _Dune,_ Kurt Vonnegut, _Hitchhiker’s Guide_ —and some Galran books Lance doesn’t recognize. This room is the only one in the apartment with a window, and the glow of the huge rising moon outside washes over the bed.

Everything seems bare, devoid of personality or any of the comforts that make a place home. The only sign of Keith in the whole place are the books on the floor, the jacket by the door. Lance supposes he doesn’t really spend much time here, but it still seems so lonely. 

He steps towards the closet, a tiny cutout in the side of the room. The moon illuminates Keith’s meagre wardrobe. His old red boots lie on the floor, next to a crumpled pair of black sweatpants. His Garrison uniform, hung neatly and pressed, smells musty. That old red cropped jacket and his new leather one, side by side. A NASA sweatshirt, cuffs threadbare. A spare Blade uniform. A few pairs of jeans, a couple black t-shirts, a pile of boxer briefs and socks on the shelf. And there—shoved in the back—a garish orange color, out of place in the monochrome. Lance reaches back to grab it, and pulls out an oversize t-shirt. _Santa Marta Fútbol_ , it says on the front. _Álvarez-McClain 07_ , it says on the back. His name. His number. The shirt he gave Keith to sleep in when he came to visit over a year ago with only a toothbrush and an extra pair of underwear in his bag.

He’d vaguely wondered where it had gone when he came back from the Garrison and done laundry, but hadn’t thought much about it. It didn’t fit him, anyway. But it had been here, hanging in Keith’s closet. He wonders if he brought it back by accident, or if it was deliberate. Did he just think it was comfortable to sleep in? Or did it remind him of Earth? Of Lance? He lifts the shirt to his face, sniffs it. It smells like Keith, even through the dusty scent of disuse. Keith must have worn it, and worn it a lot, for it to smell like this.

His heart hammers in his chest. He shoves the shirt back in the closet and turns away, trying to turn his thoughts away, too. He’s got other things to worry about. He’s exhausted. The time for thinking is tomorrow.

His eyes land on Keith’s bed. It doesn’t exactly look comfortable, but anything vaguely horizontal is appealing at this point. He’s barely slept in the last week, and he’s still a little achy. Still, it seems strange and wrong to sleep in Keith’s bed when Keith isn’t there—he’s not entirely sure why, but he can barely stand the thought of it. Instead, he snatches up the soft red blanket and leaves Keith’s room behind, retreating to the too-small couch where, despite his exhaustion, it takes a long time for dreams to come.

The next morning, he deep-cleans the apartment, even though it doesn’t really need it. It’s dusty, and he wipes down the counters in the kitchenette and opens the window in the bedroom to let some air in and diffuse the stuffiness of a space long shut up. He cleans the toilet, just for the hell of it. He straightens the pile of books and picks up the sweatpants from the floor and adds them to a smelly shirt of his own to run through the wash when he figures out how that works on Daibazaal. When he’s finished and Shiro and Keith still haven’t arrived, he sits down on the couch with Keith’s copy of _Dune_ and starts reading. It’s one of those books he’s always meant to read and never gotten around to, and he’s enjoying the feeling of real pages against his fingers—it’s been a long time since he’s read a print book. In fact, Keith and his own father are the only two people he knows who still read them regularly. 

He gets so lost in the book he doesn’t notice when his comm pings, and only snaps out of it when a loud knock on the door echoes through the apartment. He springs up, book falling to the floor, and opens the door. Shiro’s got Keith cradled in his arms bridal-style, and Keith would probably look murderous if he didn’t look so exhausted. Behind him, Krolia carries a large bag and what Lance thinks must be a wheelchair, though it doesn’t have wheels. He stands back and lets Shiro past to gently sit Keith down on the couch, where he curls up protectively, wincing as his bandaged feet drag along the upholstery. His gaze slides to Lance, where he stands uselessly in the corner. 

“You came, then.”

“Yeah.” Obviously.

Keith sighs and looks away. Apparently that’s all he has to say to Lance. If Keith persists with the silent treatment, this is going to get old pretty quick. 

He turns to Shiro and Krolia. “Where’s Kosmo?”

“Kolivan has him,” Krolia replies. “I will inform him we have returned to Daibazaal, and he will send him over. We’ll need to keep an eye on him for a while, though. He can become overenthusiastic, as you may have noticed.”

Visions of Kosmo jumping on Keith and knocking him to the ground dance in Lance’s head. “Yeah,” he agrees fervently

“He won’t hurt me,” Keith grumbles from the couch.

Krolia just sighs and sets the bag down in the corner of the room. She takes out her tablet and taps it a few times as Shiro starts unpacking the bag—a few vaguely recognizable food items, a bag of medications, a blanket and pillow, bandages and antiseptic gel. 

“I sent you his appointment schedule,” Krolia says, holding up her tablet. “The medical offices are in the Blade headquarters. He knows where. Make sure he doesn’t miss them, and don’t let him talk you out of it.” She glares at Keith and Keith glares right back.

“I have to go report to headquarters,” she adds. “I’ll check in on you later.”

Lance nods. “Thanks.”

She nods back at him and leaves, not even sparing Keith another glance. He figures the journey here probably wasn’t that fun, if Keith’s in this mood now. Krolia, while an impressive woman in many ways, is not known for her patience. Like mother, like son. Keith crosses his arms and leans further back into the couch cushions.

“Okay,” Shiro says, dumping the pillow and blanket on the couch and turning towards Lance. “Those are for you, for sleeping. I have to go meet with Kolivan myself, and then I’ll stop on my way back and get some more supplies—food, bandages. What else do you need, Lance?”

Lance shrugs. “There are some dirty clothes in the bedroom. I wasn’t sure what the laundry deal is?”

“There’s laundry facilities in the building,” Keith says from the couch. “You just drop the clothes down the chute in the bathroom and they’re returned the next day.”

“Convenient,” Lance says. “Wish the Garrison had that figured out.”

Shiro snorts. “Doing your own laundry builds character.”

“Sure it does. Um, I can’t really think of anything else. I don’t know enough about the food or anything to tell you what to buy.”

“Right,” Shiro says, turning to Keith. “Keith. Any special requests?”

Keith just shakes his head.

“Alright then.” Shiro turns towards the door, and Lance can’t help but notice he also seems eager to leave. He follows him to the door and Shiro turns to him right before he opens it, speaking too low for Keith to hear. “He’s been a nightmare, but he’s tired now, I think. He might be easier with you. Try to get him to eat something, he hasn’t eaten all day and barely drunk anything. I’ll be back in a few hours.”

Lance nods. “Thanks, Shiro.” Turning back to Keith, he regards him with crossed arms, trying to look authoritative. Keith stares back at him, not looking particularly agreeable. Lance sees the exhaustion shining through, though. 

“Let’s get you something to eat,” he finally says, turning towards the kitchenette.

Keith curls further into himself. “I’m not hungry.”

“Tough,” he replies, opening cupboards at random. “You barely ate at the hospital, and you look like you weigh about ninety pounds. Slav could take you in a fight right now. Shiro brought stuff from Altea. Bread and some vegetables and that weird cheese thing they have and some food goo, which might be easy on your stomach.”

Keith makes a disgusted face, resting his head on the back of the couch. “I don’t want it.”

“Keith.” He turns to face him. “I’m staying with you so I can make sure you don’t die while you’re trying to recover. If that means I have to force feed you, I’ll do it. I could take you in a fight, too. Doesn’t anything sound good?”

Keith swallows. Lance wonders if he’s tired of fighting him yet. “There might be something in the fridge.”

Lance swings open the door. The fridge, tiny and ill-lit, looks like nobody’s opened the door since Keith disappeared. There’s a container of something that’s turned entirely to mold and three gigantic jars of…

Lance squints. “Are those pickles?”

Keith perks up a little. “Oh. I’d eat some pickles.”

Lance pulls a giant jar out and sets it on the counter. “Dude. Do you…go on supply runs to Earth just for pickles? All the Earth foods in the world, and you go for pickles? There’s weird fermented shit on every planet, why this?”

Keith blushes. “I just like them. Nothing tastes like cheap Earth dill pickles.”

Lance peers back into the fridge. “Do you go to Costco for this?” Nothing else would explain the ridiculous size of the jars.

“And for mac and cheese. Lance, I want the pickles.”

Lance shakes his head. “If you’ll eat them, I won’t argue. No— _don’t get up_. I’ll bring you some.” He carefully extracts three pickles from their juice and lays them on one of Keith’s two plates. “Here.”

“Thanks,” Keith says quietly. His hand shakes slightly as he takes the plate. Lance can’t get over how pale he is, how skinny, how…sickly. In the dim purple light of the apartment, he looks even worse than he did on Altea.

Keith crunches into a pickle and smiles at him, anger dissipated for the moment . Lance has to turn away to hide whatever his face is doing from Keith’s gaze.

He falls asleep halfway through the third pickle, and if Lance wasn’t so worried about him eating he’d say it was cute the way his head nodded to the side and the pickle fell from his fingers back to the plate. He looks like a baby animal trying to stay awake and failing. Sighing, Lance tugs the plate from unresisting fingers and covers Keith with the red blanket, maneuvering him a little to lay more comfortably on the couch. Keith’s lashes flutter a bit and he mumbles something incoherent.

“Shh,” Lance whispers, running a hand through Keith’s hair, brushing the ragged strands out of his face. “It’s okay. You can sleep.” 

Keith doesn’t argue, just hums and lets his eye fall shut again. He’ll have to wake him soon enough to change bandages and force down medication, to eat more once Shiro returns, but for now he can let him sleep. The pinched, angry look on his face fades when he’s asleep, leaves him young and vulnerable and peaceful, despite the bandages and scars. Seeing him like that makes Lance feel better, too, so he takes a seat on the floor, leaning against the couch where he can see Keith’s face clearly, and watches for any flickers of pain or distress, for anything that might disrupt the fragile, momentary peace.

* * *

Kosmo and Shiro return later in the day, resulting in a joyous, slobbery reunion. Thankfully, Keith’s still on the couch when they materialize in the apartment, so Kosmo just jumps on top of him instead of knocking him to the ground. Lance is worried for a second about Keith being stuck under 150 pounds of overexcited wolf, but Keith’s laughing the whole time and giving Kosmo wet kisses of his own, so he figures he must be fine. Then Kosmo jumps on _him,_ and Lance doesn’t have the breath to worry about Keith anymore. Shiro looks, if possible, even more exhausted, and, after unpacking more unrecognizable groceries, bandages, toiletries for Lance, and toilet paper, grabs the blanket meant for Lance, curls up on the end of the couch, and falls asleep immediately. He’s leaving in the morning, re-entering what’s bound to be a total shitstorm at the Garrison, and Lance figures he might as well let him sleep. Keith’s still sprawled on the other end of the couch with Kosmo, lazily flipping through the copy of _Dune_ , so Lance addresses him.

“How ‘bout some dinner?” he surveys the food strewn across the kitchen counter. He doesn’t recognize anything, but he’s sure he can throw together something edible. He’s no Hunk, but he’s a decent cook. 

Keith frowns. “I already ate.”

“You ate two and a half pickles after not eating all day,” Lance says. “That doesn’t count.”

Keith sighs and sets the book aside, rubbing his eye. “I’m not hungry.”

“I don’t want to have the same argument we had four hours ago, but we can if you want.”

Keith sighs again and waves his hand listlessly. “I don’t care, then. Make whatever.”

Lance pokes through the food. Something that looks vaguely similar to an onion, but that doesn’t smell at all like one. A product vaguely resembling meat, except it’s an unappetizing shade of green. Several boxes of something that must be a grain, or a small pasta. Some jars that Lance can only guess at. He holds up the onion-not-onion. “What’s this?”

Keith squints at it. “Urka. It’s kind of like, um, a watery radish? It doesn’t really taste like anything.”

Lance holds up a jar with something suspicious floating in it. “This?”

“Pickled trillops. Like…bugs.”

Lance makes a face and sets that one aside, picking up a long, pink thing wound in a coil. 

“I don’t know the name of it. It tastes like scallions, but it’s, like rubbery. I definitely don’t want to eat any of that.”

Neither does Lance. He turns back to the small pile of goods from Altea. Bread and the cheese-like stuff, a creamy spread, might work. Altean-style grilled cheeses, maybe? He wishes there was something like soup, here, something that wasn’t food goo….

He remembers, abruptly, the package tucked away in his bag, the item he brought so carefully from Cuba. He drops the package of bread and goes to dig through his bag, on the floor by the couch. Keith follows him with his gaze, but doesn’t say anything. 

“I forgot,” he says when he gets to items stashed at the very bottom. He slides the two books he brought Keith onto the arm of the couch. “I brought you these. And this.” On top of the books, he balances the bag of Cuban coffee beans, and Keith’s face lights up.

“I thought you might like that. You want some?”

“Fuck, yes,” Keith says. 

“If I make you a cup, will you eat a sandwich too?”

Keith pouts and goddammit if it doesn’t nearly melt Lance’s heart. “Not fair.”

“I don’t care if it’s fair. Deal or no?”

“Fine. Thanks.”

“You’re welcome.” He grabs the coffee and returns to the kitchen as Keith picks up one of the books and flips through it. “ _Parable of the Sower._ I haven’t heard of this.”

“I don’t think it’s very well known anymore,” Lance says as he tries to figure out how he’s going to grind up these beans. “Out of print, for sure. But my dad’s like you are. He likes old, obscure sci-fi, and that’s one of his favorites. I thought you might like it.”

Keith bites his lip, tightening his hands around the book until the pages crinkle under his fingers. Lance pours some coffee beans in a bowl and starts trying to smash them with one of the knives in the silverware drawer. “Fuck. I didn’t really plan this well. Should have brought them already ground.”

“Thanks, Lance,” Keith says, so quietly he almost doesn’t hear him over the racket he’s making.

“What? Oh, yeah, anytime. I dunno, it’s one of the only books my dad has in English, and I just thought of you. It was while you were missing, but I figured I’d just bring it hoping I could give it to you eventually.”

He turns away from the coffee beans, and Keith’s staring at him, eye shining in the dim light, book clutched to his chest. He looks about two seconds away from crying, and Lance panics, dropping the knife and approaching him, arms outstretched. “Hey, hey, sorry, I didn’t mean to—what did I say?”

Keith shakes his head. “Nothing. I’m sorry. I just—I’m sorry I’ve been an asshole.”

Lance perches next to him on the arm of the couch, unsure of what to do with himself. He wants to hug him, but he’s not sure Keith wants that, and besides, Kosmo’s kind of blocking his access. “It’s okay,” he says. “I mean, I get why you’re pissed off. This shit sucks,” he gestures broadly at Keith’s entire body, then feels kind of bad. “I mean—what happened, the recovery time, you know.”

“That doesn’t mean I should take it out on you,” Keith says quietly, and drops his gaze. “I don’t deserve you.”

“Hey, hey, don’t say that,” Lance says, finally dropping a hand to rest on Keith’s shoulder. “It’s not about deserving. You’d do the same for me.”

Keith looks at him, mouth set in a firm line, eye blazing with intensity. “I would,” he says, and it sounds like a promise.

“I know,” Lance says, startled by the sudden seriousness in Keith’s gaze. “Now, help me figure out how I’m going to grind this coffee.”

Keith blinks and turns to Shiro. “Shiro,” he says. Then, louder. “Shiro!”

“You don’t need to wake—“

It’s too late. Shiro startles up with a grunt and looks wildly around before his gaze settles on Keith and he slumps back into the couch cushions. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to fall asleep. Just wanted to rest my eyes.”

“It’s okay,” Lance starts, but Keith interrupts him. “Can you crush these coffee beans with your hand, please?”

Shiro rubs his eyes. “Not if coffee is all that’s going in your stomach.”

“I already bargained with him,” Lance says.

“Don’t talk about me like I’m not here. I’ll eat a sandwich, but only if I get coffee with it.”

“It’s like negotiating treaties,” Shiro mutters, but hauls himself off the couch and over to the kitchen. “Only more difficult.”

“Want me to make you something?” Lance asks him after the coffee is crushed into rough but manageable pieces. He’s going to have to boil it on the stove, anyway, given they don’t have any sort of coffee pot, so it should be fine.

Shiro shakes his head. “I ate at the Blade headquarters. I think I’m just going to try to get some sleep. Sorry, I’m just exhausted.”

“It’s okay,” Lance says.

“You can take my bed,” Keith offers.

“Aren’t you going to want that?”

Keith shrugs. “I might just stay out here. I’m comfortable. I don’t want to move.”

“You should sleep in a real bed,” Shiro says. “I’ll take the floor.”

Keith opens his mouth to protest, but Shiro just holds up a hand and moves into the other room without another word. 

“He looks terrible,” Keith grumbles as Lance gets out the bread and starts hunting for a saucepan. 

“He’s been worried,” Lance says. “We all have. And he’s had a bunch of shit to do for the Garrison.”

“He should have gone back before now.”

“He didn’t want to leave you,” Lance says. He wonders if the Galra have anything resembling cooking oil and starts opening and closing cabinets again. “You wouldn’t have expected him to, would you?”

“I guess not.” Then, after a beat. “I feel bad. About you all interrupting your lives for so long.”

“Don’t. Even if you hadn’t been a part of it, we all would have had to deal with Ranveig, anyway. It was enough of a problem we all would have had to fight. Is this like oil?” He holds up a bottle of clear liquid he dug out of the back of a cupboard. Based on the bare bones of Keith’s kitchen, it’s obvious he doesn’t cook much here.

“That’s soap. I think there’s an oil that’s kind of like butter in the fridge.”

Ah. That would be the thing totally covered with mold. Guess he’s going to cook these sandwiches oil-free. Maybe he can spread some cheese stuff really thin on the outside to get it crispy…?

“Shiro told me what you did,” Keith says from behind him.

“What?”

“Flying at Ranveig’s ship like you did. He said you got hurt.”

Lance shrugs, trying to brush it off. He’s gonna have to chew Shiro out for sharing that particular tidbit with Keith. “A lot of us were injured. I was in a pod for getting shot while we were rescuing you, not anything that happened during the battle.”

Keith snorts behind him. “He said you had a severe concussion and a broken arm.”

Huh. He didn’t know the arm was broken. “Yeah, well. It worked, didn’t it?”

“You could have died, Lance.”

He finally turns around and brandishes the spatula he’s holding at Keith. “You actually can’t really talk, my man, considering the stunts you’ve pulled.”

“I only do things if I’m certain they’ll work out!”

“Don’t pull that bullshit with me, the only reason you come out of half the things you do alive is sheer luck!”

“That’s _not_ true!”

“Hey!” Shiro pokes his head into the room. “I’m trying to sleep. Please save your yelling for after I leave tomorrow.”

Keith frowns as he ducks back into the other room. “I’m just trying to say I’m glad you’re okay.”

Why is he so head over heels for this boy who can’t communicate to save his life? “Thanks. Me too.”

“Good.”

“Good.” He turns back to the stove. Turns the burner up higher for the coffee. They don’t speak again until Lance hands Keith a cup of coffee and a sandwich. He balances the plate on the arm of the couch and closes his eye, inhaling over the mug and smiling.

“Good?” Lance asks.

“So good.” He takes a sip and opens his eye, grinning. “So fucking good. Thank you, Lance.”

“You’re welcome.” He takes his own plate to the other end of the couch and sits heavily. “I’m glad you like it. Now eat your sandwich.”

“Yes, sir,” Keith says, which sends a shiver down to Lance’s stomach for all the wrong reasons. Keith smiles at him and takes a bite of the sandwich, mood turned on a dime. “This is pretty good, actually.”

“Thanks.” Lance has to agree. He didn’t do too badly, considering what he was working with.

They eat without much more talk, and Lance falls asleep against the arm of the sofa, waking hours later to a crook in his neck and Keith saying his name, face red.

“What?” he mumbles.

“I, uh. Need to pee.”

“Huh? Oh!” he shakes himself awake and hauls himself up off the couch, prodding at Kosmo until he jumps down. Keith stares at the wolf as he does, blushing harder. “I guess I could have just told him to teleport me there.”

“You might have hurt yourself. He doesn’t exactly move slowly or gently. Come on, here’s the wheelchair.”

Keith makes a face. “I’m not riding in that thing.”

“Well, you’re not walking.”

Keith winces as he straightens his legs and lowers them to the floor. “It’s not that bad.”

“Yeah,” Lance says sarcastically. “I can tell. Come here, I’ll carry you.”

Keith physically recoils. “No!”

“It’s either me or the chair.”

Keith glares at him, then at the chair in the corner, then back at him. “Fine,” he says. 

“Come on. It’s about time I have a chance to cradle you in _my_ arms.”

“I hate you,” Keith spits, but allows Lance to loop his arm under his knees and brace an arm against his back, picking him up easily and carrying him to the tiny bathroom. He sets Keith down on the toilet and stands back slightly, trying not to think too hard about what’s going on here. “Can you, like…get your pants down on your own?” Keith’s wearing loose sweats, it shouldn’t be too hard to shimmy them down his legs, but you never know.

“Yes,” Keith snaps. “Get out.”

“So polite,” Lance says, but leaves to stand outside the door. “Holler if you need me.”

“I’m _fine_!”

It takes a lot longer than Lance thinks it should, but eventually Keith calls to say he’s finished and Lance helps him sit up on the counter by the sink to wash his hands and brush his teeth. “Ready for bed?” he asks when he’s finished, and Keith nods. Lance carries him to bed and sets him down on the covers, leaving him to settle in and bringing in a water pouch to set by the bed. Kosmo trails them in and hops up on the bed after Keith’s settled.

“Well,” Lance says quietly, hovering by the door. “Goodnight.”

“Goodnight,” Keith says, not meeting his eyes. “Thanks.”

“Yeah. Anytime.”

“Get some sleep,” Keith says, eyeing him.

“I will,” Lance lies, and wanders out to the hard couch for another sleepless night. 

* * *

After Shiro leaves, they fall into rhythms. Keith refuses the wheelchair, so Lance carries him around if he needs to move. After a few days, he starts letting Keith use Kosmo to teleport to the bathroom at least, for the sake of his privacy, though he’s still worried it might hurt him. Keith spends most of his time on the couch, sleeping, or reading until he rubs at his eye and forehead. Eventually, he admits he can’t focus as well with the sight in one eye gone, and Lance starts reading aloud to him, grateful for something to do. He’s never read _Parable of the Sower,_ either, so they read it together. When they finish, they move on to the other book Lance brought, _The Island of Eternal Love_. Lance has read that one, his mom made him during his first summer back from the Garrison because the author was Cuban, and she thought he needed to learn more about Cuban art and culture after moving to the US. When they finish that, they start on _Dune_ , though Keith’s already read it more times than he can count. Three times a week, Lance forces him into the wheelchair—really more of a hover chair, and actually really cool, he’s not sure why Keith hates it so much—and they go to the PT appointments and the follow-up checkups at the Blade headquarters. Krolia comes by every few nights and brings them more unrecognizable food items, eventually taking over most of the cooking when she realizes Lance has no idea what he’s doing. Sometimes she takes Kosmo out with her for a few hours, or overnight, to “get his energy out”, which Lance is grateful for because he doesn’t want to leave Keith alone for long enough to take Kosmo for a walk, or whatever it takes to wear him out.

Through it all, Keith stays quiet. He’s not so grumpy anymore, and he seems resigned to, and even maybe enjoys, Lance’s constant company. But he’s withdrawn. Lance has taken to sleeping on the floor of his room rather than on the couch, and often wakes to Kosmo whining in his face and Keith gasping through nightmares. He does his best to pull him out of them, and usually ends up spending the rest of the night in Keith’s bed when he does. But Keith never invites him there when they go to bed, and Lance doesn’t want to push him. Every night, Keith tells him he’s fine, that he can sleep on the couch if he wants, and every night, Lance refuses him. He tells him he sleeps better in the room with the window, even though the bright glow of the moon usually keeps him awake. 

Keith doesn’t talk much. He never has, but this is worse than ever before. Like he’s somewhere far away, a place Lance can’t quite reach. His feet are healing well, he even managed a few painful steps at the last PT appointment, but he doesn’t seem happy about it. He still insists on keeping his eye wrapped, though it’s long healed, and avoids looking at himself in mirrors. Sometimes, Lance catches him watching him as he reads, or cleans, or cooks, gaze heavy on his back and flicking away when Lance turns to look at him. And Lance watches him, of course. His face as he sleeps. His brief smile when Lance manages to say something that makes him laugh. The subtle changes in his face, in the jut of his collarbone, in his skeletal hands, as he slowly starts to gain back some weight. The rough pattern of his stubble growing to scruff when he can’t be bothered to shave, which is almost always. At night, Lance lays awake and thinks about telling him. About sitting down next to him, or handing him a plate of food, or laying next to him on the couch reading and just doing it—leaning over and kissing him. Of climbing into bed one night with him without waiting for an invitation and taking him in his arms, showing him with his hands and mouth how much he loves him. How relieved he is he’s still here to love.

Sometimes he wakes from nightmares of Keith being gone, dead, and sits on the edge of Keith’s bed, feeling his distant warmth through the blankets, drinking in the sight of his sleeping face, the rise and fall of his chest. He knows it sounds creepy—it _is_ creepy—but he can’t help it. Sometimes he’s struck with the improbability that Keith’s here at all, and he has to stop in the middle of whatever he’s doing and walk himself back through the last few months, let his hand stray to the faded scar on his shoulder where he was shot, the proof of their current reality carved into his skin. 

He wishes he could say something. He wishes he could talk to Keith, but the right words don’t come. The weeks go by, and Keith’s body heals, but his mind seems farther away than ever, and Lance isn’t sure there’s anything he can do to reel him back in.

“I can try to even out your hair,” Lance offers quietly one afternoon as Keith tugs almost absentmindedly on the longer strands hanging in his face. He wants to do it more for himself than for Keith, really, the ragged remains of his long hair a painful reminder of what he went through, of their failure to find him sooner.

Keith freezes, hand still in his hair. After a moment of silence, Lance backpedals.

“No pressure,” he says hurriedly. “It’s no big deal, it just seems like it might be bugging you.”

Keith resumes tugging, harder this time. Lance winces and reaches out a hand, gently guiding his fingers away. Keith flinches at his contact and Lance pulls away quickly.

“Don’t hurt yourself,” he says softly.

Keith’s fists clench in his lap. “It’s ugly,” he finally says.

It’s about the last thing Lance would expect to hear from Keith, who, after all, had a mullet for five years of his life. Lance didn’t think Keith really cared what his hair looked like.

“It’s not,” he says automatically.

Keith glares at him. “Don’t lie to me to make me feel better.”

“I’m not—I just—“

“No,” Keith says with finality. Lance shuts his mouth. Keith sits silently, staring straight ahead. Lance tries to go back to reading reports on his tablet. Laurent has been cut off from Alliance aid as punishment for their part in the rebellion, and in retribution for the dead Blades and those lost in the battle against Ranveig. Several planets are offering asylum for any Laurentians who wish to leave their home planet. The retribution seems harsh, despite his earlier anger with Laurent as a whole. Seems like they could have just arrested the leaders who cooperated with Ranveig rather than punish the whole population, but then again, it’s par for the course that civilians suffer for their leaders’ mistakes. He makes a note to call Allura soon and ask her why this was the final decision.

“It feels weird,” Keith finally says, jolting Lance out of his thoughts. “I keep expecting to see it in the mirror, or grab onto it, or feel it against my neck, and then it’s just…not there. Maybe it would help. If it was…a little more even.”

“I used to cut Rachel’s hair,” Lance offers. “And my niece’s and nephew’s.”

Keith’s fingers twitch, reach back up to his head compulsively. “I don’t—really like the idea of anyone being near my head. Where I can't see them.” He sounds like he’s choking on the words.

“We can do it in the bathroom. You can watch me in the mirror the whole time.”

Keith looks at him for a long moment. Then gives a minute nod.

“Okay,” Lance says, turning back to his tablet.

“Now,” Keith says. 

“Oh. Uh, okay?”

“If I think too much about it it’ll freak me out.”

“Fair enough.” Lance sets aside the tablet and stands, holding out a hand for Keith. “If I get the wheelchair, will you use it?”

Keith glares at him. “No. I told you I was done with that thing.”

“Fine,” Lance says. “Piggyback it is.”

“Fuck that. No. I walked at PT yesterday.”

“Well you’re not walking now. The doctor said only at PT until you don’t need to hold on to anything to stay upright. Sorry.”

“I can—“

“ _Keith I swear to God_ —“

“ _Fine,_ fine, fine, just—make it quick—fucking Christ, Lance, the bathroom’s only twenty feet away, I could make it that far—“

“Shut up.” Lance sets him down on the toilet. “Like that was that bad. I’m just going to start sweeping you off your feet without even asking first so we can stop having this idiotic argument every time you have to move off the couch.”

“Don’t you dare.”

“You pissing me off right before I cut your hair is _such_ a poor decision on your part.”

“Lance, if you fuck up my hair I’ll—I’ll—“

“What? Pretty sure I could fight you off if I needed to right now, dude.”

“I’ll—tell Shiro you had a crush on him when you were in middle school!”

Lance freezes where he’s riffling through a drawer looking for scissors. “You wouldn’t.”

“Watch me,” Keith says grimly, and despite his general waif-like appearance he’s every bit as scary as he looks when he’s facing down an enemy. Which is…plenty scary.

Lance gulps. “Noted. But no worries. I’m not going to fuck up your hair. Aha!” He pulls some scissors out of a drawer and holds them up. “Geez, Keith, for a guy who loves knives your scissors are dull as shit.”

“Scissors and knives are different.”

“Well, good think you have enough sharpening tools for an army. Sit tight.” He walks into the kitchen and sharpens the scissors. When he comes back to the bathroom, Keith’s eye is uncovered, the bandage crumpled in his hands. Keith stares at himself in the mirror, face curiously blank. Lance thinks it might be the first time Keith’s seen himself without it. He always makes Lance change it for him on the couch, no mirror in sight.

The wound is healed, shiny and pink with new skin. It splits Keith’s eye nearly in half, bisecting the thick eyebrow and mangling his eyelid before continuing down past his cheekbone. The eye beneath is opaque and unseeing, no purple iris, just the dull gold of the Galra. It makes him look a little strange, a little more Galran than he’s ever looked before, but it doesn’t look bad, all things considered. It’s a miracle the eye’s still there, really, and that Keith doesn’t just have an empty socket. Lance thinks it looks pretty good. Judging by Keith’s face, he doesn’t agree, and Lance realizes Keith probably never even saw the wound before now, even while it was fresh, never realized how horrific it looked when they first found him or the way it swelled with infection at the hospital before he even really woke up.

He rests a gentle finger on Keith’s shoulder and Keith jumps like he’s hit him, but his gaze focuses.

“You okay?” Lance asks quietly.

Keith shrugs. “I thought the bandage would have to be off for you to do it.”

Lance nods. “You were right. Thanks for taking it off. We should probably put some scar gel on it anyway.”

“It looks bad,” Keith whispers. “Really bad.”

Again, Lance finds Keith’s concern with his appearance strange. As handsome as he is, he never seemed to have any concept of his looks or concern over maintaining them. It’s strange, now, that he’s focused on that.

But then again, maybe not. Keith’s always maintained a carefully cultivated aura, even when that aura was nothing but a bad haircut and a worse attitude. More recently, the person the universe came to know was a Blade uniform, a scar on a jaw, a braid draped over a shoulder. Keith doesn’t have that hair or that face anymore, and he can’t even stand on two feet to put a Blade uniform on. Right now, he’s a bag of bones and scars who can’t get up and move on his own. Of course that would mess him up.

Keith laughs hollowly. “Gonna be hard to fly with half my depth perception gone.”

“There are options,” Lance says. “transplants, robotics, surgery…”

“Nothing guaranteed,” Keith interrupts. He laughs again, and passes a shaking hand across his face to push the hair from his eyes. “Fuck. Who needs a one-eyed commander who can’t walk? You should have just left me there.”

Lance feels like someone’s poured cold water down his shirt. “What?” he asks, slow, because he can’t quite believe Keith would say something like that. Is this what’s been eating at him for so long? What’s turned him quiet and withdrawn and far away?

Keith meets his eyes, jaw set. “I’m a fucking half-blind cripple,” he says. “Blade’s not gonna have much use for me now, will they? Can’t exactly run missions like I used to, can I?”

“Fuck you,” Lance says, scissors forgotten, still frozen. “We almost died to get you out of there.”

“That makes it worse,” Keith says. “I’m definitely not worth dying over.”

Lance drops the scissors. They clatter against the floor. Keith jumps at the sound.

“Did it occur to you,” Lance asks, hearing the cold anger in his own tone, unable to hide it, “that maybe we didn’t come for you because you’re a Blade commander or a war hero or the Black Paladin or any of that bullshit? That maybe we just came because we cared about _you_ and wanted _you_ back?”

Keith stares at him. “That’s—“

“No, shut up, actually. I don’t want to hear it. I got fucking shot for you, Keith, and guess what? I don’t regret it for a second. I would’ve gotten shot a hundred times if it meant we got you out of there, and so would anyone else because you’re our _friend_ and we weren’t gonna just let you rot on Laurent. You would have been worth rescuing even if you were fully blind, or didn’t even have legs, or didn’t know who any of us were anymore. And you should _know_ that! You would have done as much if any of us had gone missing!”

“Lance, I didn’t mean—“

“We thought you were dead,” Lance chokes out, and then he’s on his knees in front of Keith and his head is in Keith’s lap and his hands are wrapped around Keith’s waist in a desperate hug and Keith is frozen stiff for a moment before he gently reaches down, touches Lance’s hair, his shoulder, his hand where it’s clutched tight in his shirt. 

“Lance, I’m sorry, don’t—don’t _cry—“_

It’s too late. Lance is sobbing into his lap and he can’t even bring himself to feel mortified by it. 

“I thought you were dead,” he repeats. “Do you have _any idea_ how relieved I was when we figured out you weren’t? And you think I could have just sat there, knowing you were alive, but a prisoner, and not done anything? Not come to find you? You think _Shiro_ could have done that? You idiot.”

“Lance, I wasn’t—I’m glad you came. I’m just—I don’t know what to do with myself now.”

Lance looks up at him and he knows his face is probably bright red and blotchy, and he knows he’s dripping snot and still crying a little and he knows Keith is probably judging him but he just—he doesn’t care. “You have to give yourself a little time. You’re gonna walk again and we’ll figure out your eye and even if we don’t, you’re still _you._ Just—don’t say that shit. Not in front of me. I love you so much and I thought you were dead and now you’re here and you have no idea how much I…”

He trails off, words catching up to his brain. Someone’s dumped another bucket of ice water over him.

“Wait,” Keith says. “What?”

Lance detaches his hands from Keith’s shirt and reels back, away from him, almost falling over onto the bathroom floor. His brain is full of wordless screaming and part of him feels like this must be a dream because there’s no _way_ he actually just said that out loud. Just out of the blue. He had a _plan_ for this, he needed it to be the _right time,_ and this sure as hell isn’t.

“Oh,” he chokes out, “My god.” He finds his legs and scrambles to get them underneath him, hauling himself to his feet with the help of the sink. The only thing he can think is to get out of there as quickly as he can. Out of the room, out of the apartment, off Daibazaal, home. He turns, grabbing desperately for the bathroom door. “I am _so sorry,_ I didn’t mean _—_ “

“Wait.” Keith’s hand closes around Lance’s wrist and he freezes, pulse pounding in his ears, world tunneling around him. Keith lunged forward to catch his wrist and now he’s balanced between the balls of his feet and the edge of the toilet seat, wincing. He is the only sturdy thing left, his hand on Lance’s skin all that grounds him to reality. 

“Lance,” Keith says, and it’s loaded, full of thousands of unsaid things, full of years of dancing around each other, full of something that sounds a little like longing. It’s all it takes for Lance to turn back, and Keith pulls him in until they’re breathing the same air again, Lance can’t look at him, he feels like he’ll burn alive if he does, but Keith ever so gently turns his head and forces eye contact, and Lance is crying again. He never really stopped. 

“I can’t stop,” he says nonsensically. fingers tangled in the sleeve of Keith’s NASA sweatshirt, soft and Earth-familiar.

“You don’t have to,” Keith answers, and runs his fingers through Lance’s hair to cup the back of his head, gentle and unsure, so unlike Keith Lance wonders again if this might just be another dream. That’s the only real way he can explain his next action, as he closes the infinitesimal space between them. 

Keith gasps, his hand spasms, then closes to clutch at Lance’s hair and he exhales against Keith’s mouth, which opens at the push of breath against it. Keith surrounds him, his scent, the tickle of his hair against Lance’s cheek, the flutter of his pulse against Lance’s fingers, cupped around his neck.

Keith pulls away, panting a little, face red. “Lance—you’re still crying—are you sure—?”

Lance cuts him off with another kiss, and he can’t be dreaming, because none of those dreams were ever this satisfying. “I should have done this when I found you,” he says fervently when he pulls away. “I should have done it three years ago, I should have done it back when your stupid ass beat us to rescuing Shiro.” He kisses him again to prove his point.

“Lance, you can’t—I can’t—“ Keith’s pupil is blown wide, his fingers trembling slightly where they touch Lance’s skin. “You have no idea how long I—“

“Wait,” Lance says, pulling back. “How long?” Keith blushes.

“I noticed you at the Garrison. But I didn’t—I didn’t realize until I left to join the Blade.”

Lance reels, pulls away further. Keith’s grip on his hair keeps him close. “How—“

“I missed everyone,” Keith whispers. “But I missed you so much I could barely sleep.”

Lance swallows, pulling away more. He’d missed Keith, of course, worried about him constantly, but he’d been so obsessed wth Allura at the time he’d barely thought about it. Until Keith walked off that ship after six months of radio silence, looking so much taller, so confidant, so…

So maybe Lance had been noticing for longer than he’d like to admit. But then he’d turned around and gone after Allura, and Keith had been…

“Why didn’t you say anything?” he asks. Keith looks down, won’t meet his eyes.

“You didn’t feel the same. It only would have made things more complicated.”

“How did you know how I felt?”

Keith finally looks up, startled. “What do you mean? Allura—”

Lance sighs and leans away, pushing Keith back onto the toilet seat and lifting his feet off the ground to rest in his lap. It doesn’t seem like they’ll go back to kissing anytime soon, unfortunately. They’re having This Conversation, and sure, he’d rather have it now than later, but he’d also like to go back to kissing Keith right now. Immediately. In fact, he wouldn’t mind just doing that for the rest of his life, no holds barred, never stop. He’s got a lot of fantasies built up. 

“I loved Allura,” he says. “I still do. What we had was real, and I don’t regret it at all. It’s what I needed at the time, and she’s always going to mean a lot to me. But that doesn’t mean I didn’t notice you.”

“No, you don’t get it,” Keith says, flushing with sudden anger. “I have been in fucking love with you since you shot Sendak and passed out in my arms right after telling me we were a good team. And then you forgot about it. Goddammit. Goddammit, Lance, you have no idea. You know, in the quantum abyss, we could catch glimpses out of time. Like, I saw a lot of my past, of my parents before I was born and when I was a baby. But I also saw bits of the future, and it’s weird there, because realities are all jumbled, and it’s showing you infinite possibilities. And in so many of them, you were dead, Lance. You were gone. Or I was dead, or you were with Allura, or someone else, someone faceless. But in a few of those glimpses, I had you. And that’s what fucking got me through those two years. That’s what got me through _Laurent._ That somewhere, sometimes, in some reality, I had you.”

Lance tucks a piece of hair out of Keith’s face as he turns his head away, heart a yawning chasm in his chest. “Keith, I—“

Keith shakes his head. “You don’t have to say anything, okay? I know that’s a lot and I don’t want you to ruin it by opening your mouth right now.”

“Keith,” Lance says. “Keith, look at me.”

Keith refuses, won’t meet his eyes. Lance grips his chin and guides him until they’re face to face. “Keith, come on.”

“I just—this isn’t something little to me, Lance. This isn’t something I can just throw around.”

“It’s not little to me either. Keith—no, Keith, just _look at me_ —this is not nothing. I dreamed about you all the time, I missed you so much, and that last time you came to visit, right before you left and—you remember, at the beach?”

Keith nods infinitesimally. “I remember.”

“I thought—I thought that maybe I had a chance, that _we_ had a chance but then you were just _gone_ and I thought—I thought it was too late, I thought I’d lost you and that I’d never see you again and I—“

He feels his breath hitch and his eyes burn. Keith stares at him, eye dark, lips parted. Lance wants to take him apart piece by piece, examine every inch of him, devour him whole.

“I’ve felt it for a long time,” he says softly. “But I don’t think I fully admitted it to myself until you were suddenly gone. And then, when we were at the hospital and I was standing there looking at you in that bed and you were _there_ and alive and I thought, well shit, I didn’t lose him after all and now I have to make sure I never do. Now I really have to do something about it. No more waiting around.”

“Lance—“

“Can we please go back to kissing?” Lance interrupts. “It seems like we’ve both been waiting long enough.”

Keith opens his mouth like he’s going to argue, but instead he just falls back in.

Eventually, Lance gets around to cutting his hair. It’s still a bit uneven, but it will be until it grows out a little more and Lance can cut it again. It’s short in the back and on the sides, but he manages to keep it long enough on top and in the front that bangs still fall into Keith’s eyes. Just like always. And afterwards, when he’s swept up the dark hair that litters the floor of the bathroom and thrown it away and rubbed gel gently into the scar on Keith’s face and placed a bandage over it, more so Keith doesn’t have to look at it until he’s ready than because it still needs a bandage; Lance picks him up with no argument this time and carries him to bed. He climbs in with him without hesitation and holds him close until their heartbeats are aligned and they fall asleep. He doesn’t have any bad dreams.

* * *

So everything changes, and nothing changes. They still argue all the time over stupid, small things; Keith still grumbles about being carried places, and about going to PT, and about Shiro worrying too much, and about how slowly and clumsily he’s able to walk; and Lance still feels like strangling him at least a few times a day, but now he gets to kiss him, too. He gets to lay down with his head in Keith’s lap and Keith’s fingers running through his hair as he reads to him, he gets to fall into bed with him every single night and tangle their bodies together until they can hear each other’s heartbeats instead of keeping a careful distance. And Keith—Keith, instead of staying quiet and withdrawn and _sad,_ smiles. He laughs. He talks to Lance; long, meandering conversations about everything and nothing, the way they used to talk on their comms while Lance was home and Keith was off with the Blade, before any of this happened. He always wants to cuddle, which Lance never would have expected. The second Lance sits beside him, or lays down, Keith’s on him, clinging to him like he’s afraid Lance will leave if he lets go. Part of him wonders if Keith’s still afraid of that, Shiro’s voice echoing in his mind— _Keith isn’t used to being loved._ Keith himself— _This isn’t something I can just throw around._ Does Keith still believe it might be, for Lance? If so, Lance isn’t sure how to convince him otherwise.

The weeks slide by, deepening into what would be summer on Earth, though nothing much changes on Daibazaal. Keith graduates to walking on shaky, weak legs around the apartment, and the bandages come off his feet for good. Lance isn’t sure he’ll ever get used to the scars—strange and warped, though faint, covering his whole foot. He’s lost most of his muscle mass, not only in his legs, but also the rest of his body, and they start taking long, slow walks with Kosmo to help him build it back up. Keith shows him his favorite food stalls, the tavern he’d drink at with Blade buddies, which Lance also has a difficult time picturing. Through it all, Lance tries not to think too much about the passage of time. About the Garrison, waiting for him. About his family, who call once a week without fail and insist on video chats with both of them. His mother was so happy when he told her he’d finally confessed to Keith she’d shrieked loudly enough to bring most of the rest of his family to the kitchen where they’d all gathered around and loudly offered congratulations and gentle teasing before insisting Lance include Keith on the call and been just an enthusiastic to him, as he blushed and laughed shyly. 

The thing about time, though, is when you try not to think about it, its current picks up. A week into August on Earth, Lance receives a call from Shiro asking when he’ll be back.

“I don’t know,” Lance says quietly, shutting himself in the bedroom to avoid Keith, who’s engaged in a loud video call with Pidge on the couch. “Soon, I guess, but I haven’t talked to him about it.”

“You haven’t _talked_ to him about it?” Shiro asks incredulously. “Lance, I thought you’d have a plan! I thought he’d come back with you!”

“Yeah, I mean, I’m kind of hoping he will.”

“But you haven’t _asked_?”

“I just—there hasn’t been a good time!”

“You’re living with him! How have you not had time?”

“I don’t know, Shiro!” Lance snaps. “I’ve had other shit on my mind, okay?”

Shiro sighs, crackling over the comm, and Lance can perfectly picture him rubbing a tired hand over his face. “You need to be back in the next two weeks, Lance. That is, if you even still want to teach.”

“I want to teach,” Lance says quickly, because he does. The idea of going back to teaching, of trying to gain back a semblance of a normal life, sounds great. “I just don’t want to leave him.”

“So get him to come with you,” Shiro demands, like it’s that simple. “And let me know when you have travel arrangements figured out. Which should be in the next two days. Clear?”

“I—“ He cuts himself off, sensing it’s useless to argue with Shiro. “Fine. Clear.”

“Good,” Shiro says crisply. “If you have trouble convincing him, let me know. I’ll be happy to talk to him.”

Lance has a feeling Shiro’s “talk” would include more than a few threats, and he’s not sure Keith’s in a good place for that yet. So he waits until he can’t hear Pidge’s voice yelling over the comm anymore, and then steals himself and walks back into the living room.

“Hey,” he says, standing like a total awkward idiot in the doorway.

“Hey,” Keith says, tapping away at his tablet. When Lance doesn’t say anything for a few moments, he glances up. “What’s up?”

“I, uh. We need to talk.”

Keith tenses, face tightening. “Nothing bad!” Lance blurts, because he can’t bear that look on Keith’s face. “I just—I have to go back to the Garrison soon. If I want to teach.”

Keith’s face falls. “Oh. Oh. I forgot about that.” He rubs his forehead. “Shit. I forgot about that. I’m sorry.”

“What? No! Why are you sorry?” Lance crosses the room and sits next to him, draping an arm across his shoulders. 

“I guess I was just thinking it would be like this for longer, but that’s shitty of me, ‘cause you have your own life.”

“You shouldn’t feel bad,” Lance says. “I probably should have brought it up before now. I was just putting it off.”

Keith draws away from him slightly, biting his lip. “Right. Well. When will I see you, then?”

Lance stares at him. “What?”

“When will you come back? Or, I guess I could visit, once I’m stronger. I mean, only if you want me to, I can stay away, too, if you’d rather do your own thing, I know you’re probably ready for a break—“

“Keith,” Lance interrupts. “What are you talking about? I’m not leaving ‘cause I don’t want to be with you. I’m leaving because that’s my job and I already kind of pushed it by taking half of last semester off. I don’t want you to—Jesus, I want you to come with me!”

Keith stares at him for a long moment, then says with a surprising amount of conviction. “I can’t.”

“What do you mean, you can’t? It might be a bit of a painful trip, it’s far away, but we can get you there. And then you can stay for awhile, and we can come back here after the semester, or you can come back on your own for a bit, if you want to, once you’re back to full strength.”

Keith lifts a hand to his mouth and starts chewing on his nails. “My doctors are here.”

“The Garrison has doctors. And probably better PT than here, I think that lady doing PT for the Blade is fucking mean, if I’m being honest…”

“I have to be here in case the Blade needs me.”

Lance stares at him, trying to figure out if he’s being serious. “Keith, you’re going to be on leave for a long time. You aren’t cleared for active status, even in an advisory capacity. You won’t be missing out on work opportunities for months.”

Keith’s face hardens and he turns away. “You don’t know that.”

Lance scoots closer and places a tentative hand on Keith’s back. “Keith, you’re in denial. You can’t work with the Blade yet. Come back to Earth with me. You can see Shiro, and Matt, and Pidge. She’s dying to see you in person! And my family would love to have you, too. It would be nice. We could spend some time in Cuba, and if you don’t want to be at the Garrison you don’t have to be. You can stay with me, or Shiro and Curtis, if you do, or with the Holts in town if you don't.”

Keith shrugs his hand away. “You just don’t want me to be part of the Blade anymore,” he says. “You’re trying to take me away from them. You never liked that I kept working with them.”

Lance lifts his hand away, bewildered by Keith’s reaction and trying to keep up with Keith's mental jump from visiting Earth to leaving the Blade entirely. He wasn’t expecting Keith to be thrilled about going back to Earth, but he wasn’t expecting this to be his argument. “What? No, I know you’re going to work for the Blade again, and I think you should! I don’t have a problem with you working with them, and I never did. I just missed you when you were gone, and worried about you, and I guess I just…I just thought you wouldn’t want to be apart from each other, yet. But…I guess, if I’m wrong, that’s fine? You don’t have to come.”

He’s hoping Keith will turn back to him, say, _No, no, I do want to go with you, I want to be with you, I love you_. But Keith just stays turned away, hunched over the arm of the couch. “I can’t,” Keith says again.

“I—okay,” he says, a hot lump rising in his throat. “Um, I don’t—do you want some space?”

Keith nods, back still turned. Lance rises, legs shaking slightly, unsure about what just happened. “I’ll just…be in the bedroom.”

Keith doesn’t answer. Lance waits for a beat, then retreats, tears rising as he closes the door. He sits on the bed, the dull blanket blurring under his gaze. He wonders if he should call Shiro. He wonders if he should call his mom. He wonders why Keith doesn’t want to come. He wonders if Keith doesn’t care that much about him, after all, if he liked Lance until he had to live with him for three months straight and now he’s sick of him, he hates him, he can’t wait for him to leave. 

He folds over until his head hits the pillow, legs still dangling over the side of the bed, and cries confused, hot tears until he drifts off into something approximating sleep. He wakes much later, with sore eyes and aching legs, to darkness and the slight shift of the mattress as someone sits on the bed next to him. A warm hand touches his shoulder, then his cheek.

“Lance?” Keith. His voice is soft, hesitant.

He lifts a hand to rub at his eyes and turns to look at Keith, just a dark shadow in the inkiness of the night. He props himself on his elbow. “Sorry,” he says. His voice is rough with sleep and the residue of tears in his throat. “I can sleep on the couch if you want to go to bed.”

“No.” Keith sniffs, quiet but wet. Has he been crying, too? “Sorry. I wanted to talk.”

“It’s a little late,” Lance croaks, and Keith draws back like he’s been burned. 

“Sorry,” he murmurs again. “We can wait till morning. I can take the couch.”

“No,” Lance says, rubbing his eyes again and pulling himself fully to sitting. “It’s okay. We can talk now.”

“I’m sorry I yelled at you,” Keith whispers. “I don’t think you’re trying to take me away from the Blade.”

“Good,” Lance says dully. “‘Cause I’m not.”

Keith’s silent for a long moment. Lance feels him shifting, and his shadow pulls its feet up to rest on the bed. “I’m scared,” he admits finally. “I’m scared about what we’re going to do.”

Lance sighs and scoots back to lean against the wall. “What do you mean?”

“I mean,” Keith swallows, loud in the quiet of the room. “I love you, and I want to be with you. But we have our own lives, and they’re so different. And I don’t want either of us to give up what we love, but I don’t want…I don’t want to lose you, either.”

He’s stunned by the naked honesty in Keith’s tone. He wonders how long Keith’s felt these things, kept them bottled up for fear of ruining the fragile happiness they managed to find in the last few months. 

“You’re not going to lose me,” Lance says slowly. “Nothing’s going to make me not…not love you, or want to be with you. But…I don’t want to live knowing we have each other, but never being together.”

“What do you mean?”

“I can’t do it if one of us is always leaving,” he says. “I can’t have you for a few days and then watch you go off on mission after mission, knowing you won’t come back some day.”

“I’d always come back.”

“Keith. Look at what just happened. You know what I’m saying.”

Keith sighs. “Well, I can’t move to Earth and stay there. I have to _do something_ , Lance, this work gives me purpose. Don’t you understand that? And besides, you don’t get to ‘ _have me_ ’, like I’m some thing you’re in charge of. That’s fucked up! That’s not how this is going to work!”

“Well then how _is_ it going to work? We’re gonna have to compromise here somehow!”

Keith drops his head forward to rest on his knees. “I don’t know,” he says, muffled. “What if I promised to go—to go on less dangerous missions? I mean, I can’t do what I used to, anyway. I’m not stupid. I know they won’t let me. Not with my eye like this. Would you feel better if the missions weren’t so dangerous?”

“Yes,” Lance allows cautiously. “But it’s less about that, really, and more about the fact that I’ll miss you, no matter what the missions are. I want to be near you. It sucked before, when you were gone, but now it’s gonna suck way more.”

Keith sighs again. “I know.” He’s quiet for a moment. “You were right. I won’t even be able to do nominal work for the Blade for at least a few months. I’m sorry I got angry. I’m also…I’m scared about what my future looks like with them. I’m scared they won’t take me back.”

“They’re going to take you back. They didn’t strip you of your status, and you’re invaluable to them. Kolivan just wants you to take it easy, to recover, which is good, because if he was pushing you I’d probably get into a fight that I’d lose.”

Keith snorts. “You definitely would, but I appreciate the thought.” He’s quiet for another long moment. Lance shifts in the silence, picks at the coarse threads in the blanket. “I know I’ll work with them again. I just don’t know what it will look like, and that freaks me out. I’ll have to do more diplomacy work, slower humanitarian work. I won’t be able to go to the places that really need help, and that’s gonna be different. And hard. I want to be where I can do the most good.”

Lance’s heart breaks for him, a little. He’s so determined, so willing to give everything of himself to the people who need him. “Keith, you’re just as important diplomatically. I don’t think you realize how much people look up to you, how much people value what you have to say. You’re smart. You know a lot. You make a difference with everything you do, because people look to you for guidance. You’re the person who made the Blade what it is. When it comes down to it, you were the one who pushed for them to turn to humanitarian work, instead of disbanding after the war. You determine who needs the most help, you talk to the leaders and work with the people and gain their trust. Hell, you’re doing more than any of us to promote the Alliance. It’s thanks to you that half the people join us. No matter what you’re doing, it’ll be important.”

Keith laughs. “Jesus. That’s a little heavy on the flattery.”

“It’s just the truth,” Lance says honestly, because it is.

“I don’t want to leave you, either,” Keith says quietly after a bit. “I hope you know that. And I don’t want you to leave. I didn’t mean to make it sound like that.”

“I know. And I’m not leaving because I’m tired of you.”

“I know. I want to be together.” His breath hitches almost imperceptibly. “It would really hurt to be apart, when we just figured ourselves out.”

“I know,” Lance says again.

“Have you ever thought about…maybe coming on missions with me?”

“What?” Lance asks, surprised. “You’d want me? I wouldn’t be much help.”

“Of course you would,” Keith says, exasperated. “You’ve got diplomatic experience, you’re well-known and respected, and you know how to fight. You’ve got all our bases covered. I think you’d be a lot of help on some missions, actually.”

“Well,” he says slowly, mind opening up to the thought. “I guess I could, maybe. In the summers. I don’t want to stop teaching.”

“I don’t want you to stop teaching,” Keith says. “You’re good at it, and it makes you happy. But that might be a way to compromise. I can concentrate most of my missions in the summer, do diplomatic work on Earth as much as possible during the times you’re teaching. I’m trying to step away from running things here, anyway. I don’t want a position of power on Daibazaal, especially after everything that’s happened. I just want to keep working with the Blade, doing the humanitarian stuff. We need a liaison on Earth, anyway. So I do that more during the school year—though I’d still have to travel, you need to understand that—and any big missions I go on, humanitarian or diplomatic, I'd go when you can come, if you want to.”

“I—I—“ Inexplicably, he feels his eyes filling with tears. “You’d do that? To be with me? You’d be in a lot of meetings, on Earth. You hate meetings.”

Keith laughs. “Well, thanks to the eye issue, I’m probably going to have to get used to it.” His hand creeps across the blankets to grasp Lance’s tightly. “Besides, you’re worth it. I’m sorry I made it seem otherwise.”

Lance squeezes back just as tight. “It’s okay. I’m sorry—I’m sorry I’m so attached to Earth. I wish I didn’t care so much, but. But they’re my family too.”

Keith scoots up the bed until he’s sitting next to Lance, back against the wall and head tucked down against Lance’s shoulder, hair brushing his neck. “I’m not. I’m glad you have a place you love to go back to. And maybe…maybe I need to give Earth another chance. I hated it for a long time, because it never gave me anything. Or I felt that way, at least. Besides Shiro, every good thing in my life came from space. It all happened after we left. But…so many people I care about love Earth. So maybe I shouldn’t write it off completely.”

Lance drops a kiss down on Keith’s messy hair. “I love _you_.”

“I love you, too.”

“Does that mean you’ll come back with me? For this semester? And then we can go from there?”

Keith wraps an arm around Lance’s belly, pressing in close. “Yeah. I will.”

Lance grins, nose still buried in Keith’s hair. “Thank you.”

Keith brushes his lips against Lance’s collarbone, the warmth puckering goosebumps on his skin. “I’m sorry I made you cry.”

Lance wraps his arm around Keith, holding tightly. “I’m sorry _I_ made _you_ cry.” Keith huffs a laugh against his skin. “Should a goal of ours be to not make each other cry very often?” he asks.

“Sounds good to me,” Lance says, and leans down to kiss him.

* * *

He thought, after leaving and coming back to Earth the first time, that the feeling of the sun on his skin would never feel so good again. Turns out, it feels better and better every time. There’s something about the sun on Earth—the way it melts into your skin and warms you down to your bones, the way its light plays off everything around you—that he’s never felt anywhere else in the universe. And he’s felt the rays of a lot of different suns.

When he walks out of the port in Havana, Keith’s hand clasped tightly in his own, Lance stops in his tracks as they step into the sun. He lifts his face to the light and lets it wash over him. It’s the rainy season, but they’ve been blessed with a rare sunny morning. The humidity washes over him, the scent of exhaust and fruit and decomposing plant matter and food cooking somewhere and, under it all, the saltiness of the sea. The jabber of taxi drivers and the shrieks of reuniting families and the calls of the churro vendors surround him and he’s _home_. 

Keith squeezes his hand and he turns to him, grinning. Keith smiles back, and then points, and Lance turns, and there they are. His family, running towards them like a small tidal wave, ready to bowl them over. His mother’s in the lead and she reaches them first, enveloping them both in a hug and already crying. Then Nadia and Sylvio attach themselves to their waists—Nadia takes Keith, Sylvio squeezes Lance—and Marco gets him in a sort of headlock from behind, and his father’s clapping both of them on their backs and holding back tears unsuccessfully, and Rachel’s jumping up and down with excitement, and Veronica’s punching him none too gently in his shoulder and ruffling Keith’s hair and Luis is trying to take a video of it all and _god_. He’s home.

He somehow keeps a grip on Keith’s hand through it all, squeezing gently. Keith looks at him, overwhelmed, but happy, and smiles. His eye’s uncovered, and Lance thinks he’s never seen anyone so beautiful in his life, scars and all. And he’s _here,_ Lance has him by the hand, by his side; his mother is kissing him on the cheeks and fussing over him like he’s her own, Veronica’s got her arm slung over his shoulders and is gently chewing him out for getting kidnapped like an idiot, and Nadia still hasn’t let go of his waist. Lance’s family made a place for him long ago, probably the first time he walked into their kitchen, long before Lance admitted to himself what Keith meant to him. And he looks like he belongs here among them, ruffling Nadia’s hair, giving Luis a fist bump, hugging Lance’s mom tightly. And _god,_ Lance never thought he could have this, in those horrible months after the war. He never thought he’d be allowed this happiness again.

And here he is. With Keith. Happy.

Home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is officially the longest thing I've ever written in my life. Didn't expect that prize to go to VLD fanfic, but I guess life is full of surprises.
> 
> Come say hi on [Tumblr!](https://prevalent-masters.tumblr.com)


	10. Beginning

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter warnings: brief discussion of torture and injury, brief mention of child abuse, rough sex. If you want to skip the sex scene, stop reading at "Keith deepens the kiss" and start up again at "Keith mumbles something into the pillows that Lance can't make out."

**Eight Months Later**

 

The sun beats against him through the thin fabric of his threadbare t-shirt. His shoulders and lower back ache, muscles knotted and tight from his hunched position. It’s ridiculous to do this by hand—planting corn, seed by seed, over nearly an acre—but his father still refuses to buy seeding equipment for their tractor. Next spring break, he’s either staying at the Garrison or going to visit Allura. No more corn planting for him.

Still—even after a mind-numbing and crippling day of planting, the dirt under his fingernails still feels like home. The scent of the sea and the crumble of red soil against his hands still spells peace. He doesn't make it home as often anymore, spending most of the semester at the Garrison rather than running back and forth between Cuba and Arizona every other weekend. He’s teaching more classes now, and he likes living at the Garrison. Keith’s there, more often than not, and Shiro and Curtis, and Pidge and Matt.

But nothing quite matches the sensations of home. The touch, the taste, the scent.

He stands straight, stretching and groaning as his back cracks. A trickle of sweat runs down his neck and he squints at the sun, sinking down through the thunderheads in the west. He forgot his comm inside, but judging by the light it has to be nearing five, if not past. He should head inside, help with dinner. He’s going back to the Garrison tomorrow, which means his mom is cooking a feast tonight, and Luis and Lisa and the kids are in town, and Marco and his new wife Beatriz are coming over, and Veronica might have convinced Axca to come, too, which…that whole thing is a weird new development. Lance doesn’t know too much about it and he’s honestly too scared of both of them to ask. 

He leaves his bucket of corn seed in the shed and swings back down to the lower field to grab some peppers his mother requested for dinner. He lets himself in as the first few raindrops patter down, evaporating on the dusty ground. One of the first storms of the year, heralding the beginning of the rainy season. Voices clamor from the kitchen as he toes off his boots and hangs up his hat. 

“ _Rachel, calienta un poco de aceite.”_

_“Ay, mamá, aún no.”_

_“Leandro estará aquí pronto—“_

_“¿Quieres una cerveza? Debes estar cansado. No, no, no necesitas ayudar.”_

And then—a painfully familiar and completely unexpected voice. “ _No se preocupa, quiero ayudar. Permitame—¡Puedo picar!”_

Lance drops the peppers, and they roll all over the floor. He almost doesn’t notice, leaping over them to the kitchen.  ****

He’s standing next to Lance’s mom at the counter, trying to wrestle a knife and an onion out of her hands. Typical. He’s wearing one of Lance’s t-shirts—their wardrobe mingles together, these days; or, rather, his wardrobe grows as he pilfers the clothes of Lance’s he likes the best—and some cutoff shorts, looking more casual and relaxed than Lance has seen him in ages. He turns as Lance clatters into the kitchen, relinquishing his hold on the knife, and grins at him, hair falling into his eyes.

It’s only been about a month, but it feels like years since he’s seen him. He rushes across the room into Keith’s open arms and buries his face in that nook between neck and shoulder where Keith smells the strongest of himself. Keith’s arms come around him, strong and tight, and Lance lets out a long, shaky breath against Keith’s warm skin before pulling back slightly to cup his face in his hands.

“You’re not supposed to be back yet!”

Keith smiles wider, eyes crinkling at the edges. “Thought I’d surprise you.”

He rubs his thumbs over Keith’s cheekbones, the puckered skin of the scar rough under his fingertips, and drinks in the sight of him. He doesn’t look too tired, which is good. Means the diplomatic mission he’s been on for the last three and a half weeks hasn’t been too exhausting—it shouldn’t have been, but Lance still worries. He’s kept his hair fairly short since Lance first cut it for him, but his bangs could use a trim now, the tips brushing against his nose and cheekbones, thick and always a little wild. The gold of his injured eye isn’t as jarring anymore, melting into the overall picture of his face like it belongs there now, after nearly a year. His good eye shines as he takes Lance in, smile playing on his lips. Lance brushes the hair away from his eyes and leans in for a kiss. It’s quick, sweet—nothing like the kiss he really wants after so long apart, but that kiss probably isn’t something his family should watch. That kiss will be saved for later tonight, when they’re alone together in the dark. 

“I missed you,” Lance mumbles as they pull apart. 

“I missed you, too,” Keith smiles, and drops a kiss on Lance’s jaw.

“Okay, you two,” Rachel says from the other side of the room. “Control yourselves.”

“Rachel,” his mother chides. “ _Ellos son dulces.”_

Rachel just rolls her eyes, but goes back to chopping veggies. Lance’s mom outmaneuvers Keith and hands the knife and onion to Lance. “ _Siéntate_. _Keith, puedes ayudar Leandro si quieres, pero también puedes descansar. Tenemos muchas manos para preparar la cena._ ”

Keith laughs. “Your mom’s a stubborn one. I tried to tell her I’m not tired and can help, but she refuses to believe me.”

“Sounds right,” Lance says, and hands him the onion and knife. “You can chop if you really want to. _I’ll_ drink a beer and relax. _Papá, necesitamos un sembradora. Eso fue malo_.”

His father just waves a hand at him. “Hand seeding builds character.”

“You only say that because you didn’t have to do it!” Lance pulls two beers from the fridge and goes to sit beside Keith, who’s already started chopping the onion carefully into neat, tiny pieces. 

“ _Cuidado con tus palabras, mijo_ ,” his father chides, laughing. “I did it for thirty years without your help.”

Lance slides Keith a beer. “Baby, you’ll give me a back massage tonight, won’t you?”

Keith doesn’t even look up. “Maybe.”

Lance pouts and sips his beer. “I’m persecuted by everyone who’s supposed to love me.”

“I might be too tired,” Keith continues. “Maybe I’m the one who’ll need a _massage_.” He turns to Lance ever so slightly as he says it and winks, almost too quick to catch. Lance fumbles his beer and nearly spills it over the table. 

“I—uh—“ he’s blushing, he can feel it. He hates how easy Keith can ruffle him, even this many years later.

Thankfully, his mother saves him by dropping a chunk of beef and a knife in front of him. “If our guest is helping, you don’t get to sit back and relax. Chop. Where are my peppers?”

“Oh, I, ah—left them by the door. I’ll get them.”

Keith sets aside his neatly chopped onion and stands. “I’ll help.”

“Oh, it’s okay, there’s only a few—“

Keith gives him a Look. “I’ll help.”

“Okay,” Lance squeaks, and leads the way out of the kitchen. He turns to Keith as they reach the door and Keith kisses him before he can get a word out and maneuvers him out the door to push him against the side of the house. He deepens the kiss as Lance makes a surprised sound into his mouth and winds his arms around Keith’s neck, pulling him close. The rain drums on the tin roof of the porch and they kiss for a long time, lazy and deep. Lance breathes Keith in and holds him close, fingers tangled in the short hairs at the nape of his neck. 

“Shit,” Keith breathes when he pulls away, cheeks flushed and lips bitten red. “I missed you.”

Lance keeps his grip on the back of his neck, holding him close, drinking him in. “Me, too,” he mumbles, and dives in for another kiss. “The mission was okay?” he asks when he draws back. “You’re okay?”

Keith smiles. “I’m fine. It was easy. Just meetings. The usual.”

“Wish I could have gone,” Lance breathes, running his fingertips along the shell of Keith’s ear.

“I’m glad you couldn’t, you would have been bored out of your mind.”

“We’d have been together, though.”

Keith bumps his forehead against Lance’s. “Yeah. I’m here now, though. Don’t have to leave again till July, and you could come then.”

Lance smiles against his mouth. “Yeah.”

They kiss for awhile longer, rain a quiet background patter. Lance melts into Keith, relishing the feeling of his hands on his skin, his close, calming warmth. They’ve definitely far outlasted the permissible time for retrieving the peppers, but he doesn’t care. What his family doesn’t see won’t hurt them.

A loud wolf whistle comes from behind Keith and he stiffens, lips freezing against Lance’s. Lance peers out around his shoulder to find Marco, grinning and soaking wet from the rain. Behind him, Beatriz smirks at them. 

_“¿Acere, qué bolá?_ We weren’t expecting to see you for awhile,” Marco says to Keith as he blushes a deep, bright red.

“Got done earlier than I thought I would,” he says, drawing back from Lance. “Thought I’d surprise him.”

Marco claps him on the shoulder. “Nice! You wouldn’t believe how much he’s been moping.”

“I haven’t been _moping_!” Lance protests.

Marco rolls his eyes at Keith as Beatriz shoulders past them to get out of the rain. She starts laughing when she sees the peppers still scattered on the floor. 

“You two get sidetracked from a job here?” she asks, bending down to pick them up. Lance snatches them out of her hands, face burning. “I got it!” he says, while she continues to laugh. “I got it! Jesus, you two are the worst.”

Marco punches him on the shoulder. “Love you too, _hermanito_.” Lance sticks his tongue out at him and grabs Keith’s hand to trail them back to the kitchen, where his mother has apparently given up on getting their help with dinner and chopped the meat herself. The scent of cooking fills the room and spills out into the rest of the house, and the room clamors with the sounds of everyone greeting each other. Lance sets the peppers down on the counter and turns back to look at Keith. He’s still blushing faintly, looking around the kitchen at Lance’s family and smiling slightly. He tightens his grip on his hand and pulls him closer, leaning on him as they stand in the corner of the kitchen. Keith wraps an arm around him and Lance lets himself relax, to exhale the day-by-day stress, the work annoyances, the sore ache of his back, his worries, his fears, the vestiges of last night’s nightmare—it all slides off him like a sluice of warm water and he lets himself just be for a moment, safe in the circle of Keith’s arms, in this warm belly of his childhood home, surrounded by the people who love him.

* * *

It’s a long time before they’re alone again in the quiet darkness of Lance’s room. Dinner was an extended, meandering thing, full of laughter and catching up, and they all lingered at the end over coffee before Marco and Beatriz finally decided to head home and broke up the party. Keith insisted on helping with dishes and only gave into Lance’s pulling towards the bedroom after the last glass was dried and put away. 

Lance finally has him where he wants him. He presses Keith up against the door, kisses heavy and insistent, coaxing tiny noises from Keith’s throat, drawing away from his lips to mouth down the side of his neck, peppering tiny bites along his collarbone, sinking his teeth into that junction between neck and shoulder that always makes Keith groan. Keith exhales shakily against his ear, fingers scrabbling at Lance’s hips and catching in the waistband of his jeans. 

“ _F-fuck,_ Lance,” he gusts out, breath hot against the side of his face as he licks and sucks at the mark he made on his neck. “What are you, sixteen?”

Lance draws away just enough to speak, ghosting his breath along Keith’s cheekbone. “You like it,” he whispers, and pushes his leg between Keith’s, pressing against him. “You can’t hide it."

Keith shudders against him. “You’re gonna kill me,” he breathes. “Are you sure we should—“

Lance gets what he’s saying. Nadia and Sylvio are right down the hall, Veronica and Axca are next door, his parents right downstairs—and the walls of this old house aren’t exactly thick. But Lance has him here in front of him, all breathless and flushed, and if Keith thinks Lance has any self control left after nearly a month apart, he’s sorely mistaken.

“ _Yes_ ,” Lance near-growls, nipping at his earlobe. “Fuck, Keith, look at you—“ he draws back, raking his eyes up and down Keith’s body. He’s beautiful like this, shirt rucked up, hair disheveled, gaze hot and heavy where it rests on Lance. Sometimes, Lance forgets he can look at Keith and act on it, now. He grew so used to stealing glances when Keith couldn’t notice, staring and staring and looking away as soon as Keith so much as turned his way. What a miracle, to be able to drink him in without shame; to draw back in and kiss every inch of him. He holds himself back just barely, meeting Keith’s gaze for a moment. “Unless you don’t want it?”

Keith surges towards him, wrapping his hands around Lance’s wrists to draw him close. “You know I do.”

It was a long time after that afternoon in the bathroom on Daibazaal before they did this. There was plenty of kissing, devolving quickly to making out, and, after Keith regained some of his strength, jerking each other off like horny high schoolers. Then, gradual progression to blow jobs every once in awhile, something Lance remembered loving from a few messy, quick hookups at the Garrison and retained some talent for. Lance loved it all, loved anything Keith would give him, was desperate to take him apart piece by piece, so ridiculously attracted to him he felt like he was nothing but a collection of raw nerve endings, sparking and sinuous with electricity when they were together. But he also didn’t want to overstep Keith’s boundaries, so he held back, let Keith take the reins, too scared to ever just sit down and ask what he wanted. Keith, even after he was walking again and gaining back his strength, seemed so fragile; every so often he would still flinch at a touch if it came unexpected. Lance knew he hated being treated like a fragile thing, but it didn’t stop him from feeling like Keith was a piece of bone china, liable to break if he even held it wrong.

A few weeks after they got back to Earth, in Lance’s tiny old Garrison apartment, Keith finally pushed him against the wall in the middle of making out and demanded to know what his problem was. Lance, bewildered, didn’t know what he was talking about. Mind addled with lust, he just kept reaching out to pull Keith back in. “This,” Keith demanded. “This look on your face. Are you scared to follow through?”

“No,” Lance said, still confused. “Follow through with what?” Keith slammed him back against the wall, anger rising. “Fucking. I can tell you want it, and you always hold back, or redirect things at the last minute. Do you think I don't want it?”

Lance just shook his head. “Yes—no—I didn’t know! I was worried you wouldn’t. That you weren’t ready.”

“Well, maybe you should have asked.” Keith dove back in, aggressive, edging on pain, but Lance didn’t mind. The bright sting of Keith’s bite marks, his insistent hands pulling at Lance’s pants and underwear, the demanding probe of his fingers, split Lance apart into something he almost didn’t recognize. He’d never been more turned on in his life than that first time with Keith, never thought sex could feel quite like that. He supposes he shouldn’t have been surprised—nothing with Keith is ever like anything he can expect.

It was like a dam broke that night. Since then, keeping their hands off each other has been difficult, time apart even more so. Lance is a grown, healthy man who doesn’t have a problem jerking off, but it can’t compare to the real thing in front of him, warm and beautiful and _so fucking hot_. And, again, it’s been _almost a month_. So if fucking in his childhood bedroom is what’s about to happen, Lance isn’t gonna complain. Needs must, and all that.

“We can be quiet,” he mumbles against Keith’s mouth, and maneuvers them over to the bed, pushing Keith down with enough enthusiasm he bounces. He laughs, looking up at Lance and Lance’s heart quivers in his chest. He climbs up, straddling Keith and they throw their t-shirts off in a tangle of limbs and giggles. Lance stills for a moment, hovering, when Keith is bare-chested and stretched out below him. His chest heaves, nipples dusky pink against his pale skin, still a little skinnier than he ever was before he was captured, but Lance tries not to worry too much about that. He’s beautiful, hands reaching up to tangle in Lance’s hair and bring him back down for a kiss, open and trusting and unguarded in a way he rarely allows himself to be, especially these days. It’s special, reserved for Lance and Lance alone and he holds the vulnerability like a gift, close to his heart.

Keith deepens the kiss, licking into Lance’s mouth and tightening his grip in his hair. Lance groans and falls into him, barely bracing himself on his elbows, pressing against Keith in a way that makes them both moan. He can feel Keith against him, hard and straining against the fabric of his shorts, and knows Keith’s been just as eager for this moment as he was.

“What do you want?” he breathes into Keith’s ear, snaking his hand down to pop open the button on his fly and relishing Keith’s shudder as he slides the zipper down, teasingly slow. “What can I do?”

“Anything,” Keith gasps into his neck as Lance lets his fingers trail ever so lightly against the bulge in his underwear. “I want you.”

“Yeah?” Lance asks, keeping his voice light, teasing. He slides down Keith’s body, peppering kisses on his sternum and collarbones, open mouthed against his nipples, slides his tongue down the light trail of hair from his bellybutton down. He pauses just above Keith’s dick, straining against his underwear, a wet spot just showing on the grey fabric. He lets his breath play over it, teasing and warm, and looks up at Keith. “You want me like this?”

Keith’s eye is a dark pool, his fingers clenched in the bedsheets, flush high on his cheekbones. “Yes,” he replies, voice gravel. “Whatever you want.”

Lance grins. “Whatever I want, huh?” he taps his fingertips on Keith’s hipbone and then pulls off his shorts and underwear at the same time, throwing them to the floor and sliding to his knees in one motion. Keith gasps as Lance drags him to the edge of the bed.

Keith cries out when he swallows him down, toes curling, and Lance reaches up to rest a finger over his lips. “Shhh,” he says when he surfaces for air. “No noise, remember?”

Keith moans, ragged and low, already strung-out even though they’ve just started. He sucks Lance’s finger into his mouth and swirls his tongue around it and Lance adds another finger, just for the hell of it. It’s a bit of a stretch from his position on the floor, but he can deal with it because _fuck_ , it’s hot. He reaches his other hand down to pop the button on his own jeans and gives himself a stroke as he swallows Keith down again. Keith jerks and moans, hand finding Lance’s head and pulling at his hair. Lance lets him, let’s him guide his head a bit as Keith thrusts up into his mouth. He likes the feeling of fingers pulling his hair, and Keith always did have trouble letting go of control. Lance will allow him this much now, because he knows Keith’s control melts away bit by bit, knows what he can draw out of him. The progression is half the fun.

He blows Keith until he’s gasping, until he's pushing at his head and breathing, “Fuck, fuck, Lance, I’m about to—“

And then he pulls off with a pop and bites down hard on Keith’s thigh and Keith groans and bucks under him, hands clenched in the sheets. “Fuck, Lance, don’t _stop,_ I need—“

“Oh, I’m not stopping anything, baby.” He bites a line of hard kisses down Keith’s thigh, mouths his balls for a moment, and then circles his tongue lightly around Keith’s hole. Keith reacts like someone shocked him, slamming his palms down on the bed and arching up into Lance’s face.

“Ffu _—Hah—_ Oh my _god_ , Lance—“

“You like that?” Like he has to ask.

“Fff—fuck you.” That’s Keith-speak for _yes_.

“You want me to keep going?”

Keith kicks his heel against the side of the bed, narrowly missing Lance’s shoulder. He takes him by the ankle and pushes his leg back into place. “Behave,” he warns, and Keith shudders.

“Yeah,” he says, sounding slightly more undone. “I—I cleaned everything up, when I showered.”

Lance grins. “Good.” He licks a long line over Keith’s ass, around his balls, up his cock, trails back down to suck lightly against his hole. “You must have read my mind.” He blows lightly over his hole and leans back to enjoy the face Keith’s making.

“It’s not hard to read,” Keith manages after a few heavy breathes, cracking his eyes open to stare at Lance. He looks defiant again, and reaches for his dick.

“You better not come,” Lance warns, pulling Keith’s hand to the side and holding it against the mattress. 

“I _hate you_.”

“Yeah, right.” He dives back in. Keith jerks under him with a shattered groan. He hopes Veronica and Axca are either heavy sleepers or having their own fun, because at this point _quiet_ has basically gone out the door alongside any hope of preserving the childhood innocence of this room. 

Oh, well. He spreads Keith’s cheeks apart with his hands and pushes deeper, licking in instead of around, relishing Keith’s little noises, the hitches in his breath, the fluttering against his tongue as the tight ring of muscle relaxes bit by bit. Keith’s a mess above him, hair tangled inky-dark against the rumpled sheets, eyes screwed shut, lips red from kissing and hanging open as he pants. Heat swells in his chest at the sight of him, the sound of him, the smell of him. The feel of his hot skin, the timbre of his voice, the taste of him, a little salty, a little musky.

And then he chokes on his own spit and has to pull away for a moment, much to Keith’s vocal annoyance. Every time he does this he forgets how messy it is. There’s spit everywhere, and his face is covered in a mixture of it and precum and, truthfully, that’s why he doesn’t often do this. It’s messy, and also it’s, like, _an asshole._ And Lance has total faith in Keith’s ability to clean himself up, but still. It’s the principle of the matter, and the principle comes down to Lance not getting super turned on by sticking his face and tongue right up in there. But then there are the times—times like this—where, for some reason, it’s the hottest thing in the world, and he’d happily spend hours on his knees with his face right here. It probably has something to do with the sounds Keith makes while he’s doing it, with the way his face screws up, with the heaving of his chest and the bite of his fingernails against Lance’s skull. Keith loves this, giving and receiving it, but he never asks Lance for it, never pushes, just lets it happen when Lance is ready to give it. Lance loves him. God, he loves him.

He dives back in, deeper, and wiggles his tongue around, circling it slowly inside him, pushing further. Keith shouts again as he probes deeper and Lance reaches up to push fingers back into his mouth.

“Quiet,” he reminds him, pulling away slightly for a few deep breathes. “Get them nice and wet.” Keith groans and pushes his ass against Lance’s face, impatient. Lance tweaks at a nipple. “If you want me to fuck you next, that is.”

“Fuck yeah,” Keith garbles around his fingers, and starts sucking.

Lance pulls away when Keith’s breathing is nothing but short, heavy pants and his thighs are trembling. Keith groans at the loss of contact and Lance leans up to run a hand through his hair before reaching over to dig through his nightstand drawer. “Just a minute,” he says and Keith pouts, hand reaching for his swollen, flushed dick. Lance bats his fingers away. “No touching,” he says. “Be patient.”

“Goddammit,” Keith growls at him, but his hand flops back down to the mattress. Lance grins at his complacency and finally finds the lube, dumping a generous dollop on the fingers Keith was sucking. They tried once to use nothing but spit for lube and it didn’t end too well for either of them. Lance couldn’t sit comfortably for a week afterwards. Keith hisses at the chill of it but quickly relaxes again, opening easily to Lance’s fingers. 

He takes it slow, just one at first, though Keith grows impatient quickly—“I need _more_ , Lance, _come on_.”

“Be patient,” he tells him, and goes as slow as he wants, watching Keith’s face and the muscles jumping in his body. He purposefully avoids his prostate until he slides in the second finger, and then he lets his fingertips just brush it. Keith twists and gasps. 

“Feel good?”

Keith no longer has the breath for a stinging retort, so Lance figures he’s doing a good job. He’s pliant around Lance’s fingers, loose and relaxing more with every movement even as the rest of his body tenses and shakes, his dick heavy and painfully red with arousal. He adds a third finger, and Keith opens for it beautifully—he seems to barely notice the stretch. _This_ is why eating out Keith is so rewarding—he can take anything Lance gives him afterwards. 

He crooks his fingers, stroking with purpose now, trying to hit that sweet spot over and over again. Keith’s writhing, letting out long, low, consistent moans. As Lance starts pushing his fingers in and out with more rhythm, his eyes fly open, blown wide. He lifts a hand and grips Lance’s wrist with desperate force.

“Lance, I’m gonna—I can’t—“

“Yes you can,” he says evenly, crooking his fingers and watching the breath go out of Keith. “Patience yields focus, remember?”

Keith glares at him, dark purple and bright gold a terrifying combination. Lance is used to it. “Please don’t parrot Shiro while we’re having sex.”

Lance shuts him up by sliding in his pinky finger alongside the other three. “It’s good advice,” he says innocently as Keith whines. “Besides, you’re the one who asked for a massage, or don’t you remember?”

“I—I didn’t mean like _this_.”

“Sure you didn’t,” he replies sarcastically. “Like you’re not a giant tease.”

“I’m _not_ ,” Keith tries to say, but loses steam halfway through as Lance twists his hand and pushes his fingers insistently against his prostate. His breath hitches and he bucks up, face twisting, a tiny pearl of precum—or is it cum?—beading at the tip of his dick and sliding onto his heaving stomach.

Lance stills his hand. “Ahh—careful.”

“Please, Lance,” Keith whispers. “Fuck me, fuck me, _fuck me_ —“

Truthfully, Lance could do this for hours, stringing Keith out, edging him until he can’t even talk anymore, but Lance’s own dick is begging to be let in on the action, distractingly hard, so he relents. 

“Just ‘cause you asked so nicely,” he says, and slips his fingers out of Keith. Keith groans, his hole fluttering around empty space, and Lance kicks off his pants and kneels up on the bed, pushing Keith back. Keith manages to push himself up onto his elbows, though his arms are shaking, and scoot back on the bed, giving Lance room. Lance reaches up to grab a pillow and shoves it under his ass and Keith exhales shakily, letting his legs fall open. 

He reaches back over to the open nightstand drawer, rummaging through it until he finds a condom. Keith opens his eyes to the crinkling of the foil wrapper.

“Wait,” he says, right before Lance tears it open. “You—you don’t have to.”

Lance freezes. “What?”

Keith blushes, face all the way down to his chest. “I—uh. Kind of want you to come inside of me. If that’s. Uh. Something you want to do.”

Lance didn’t think he could get any more turned on, but he actually has to reach down and grip the base of his dick to stop himself from coming all over Keith in response to those words. “ _What_?”

Keith, if possible, blushes harder. “You also don’t have to. It was just. An idea. I've been thinking about.”

Keith’s been thinking about _his cum in him_. For _how long_?

“No, no, no—“ he stumbles over himself. “No, I—I think that would be really great actually, but do you want to talk about it more when we’re not, like, in the heat of the moment?”

Keith looks at him, and for a minute everything stills. His aching erection, the musky scent of sex in the air, the rumpled sheets, the bite marks on Keith’s neck and thighs. For a moment, all he can see is Keith’s eyes, the trust in his expression. 

“Have you had sex with anyone else recently?”

“No, I—no. Of course not.”

Keith gives a short, tight nod. “Neither have I. And I’m clean. I know I am.”

“I—me too.”

“Okay,” Keith says. “So what else do we need to talk about?” Bless him, for his bluntness, for his surety, for his steadiness, even when Lance has teased him to the very edge of falling apart. “Unless,” he adds, “you don’t want to for any other reason. Which is totally fine.”

“Fuck, no, I _really want to_.”

Keith grins, quick and dangerous, and hooks his leg around Lance’s waist, knocking him off-balance so he’s braced over Keith. “So what are you waiting for?”

“ _Fuck_ ,” Lance says again, and pulls Keith into a kiss, deep and long and breathless. He flicks the condom away and fumbles for the lube, dumping some into his hands and messily spreading it on himself, shuddering at the contact. _Shit_ , he’s sensitive. 

They both groan as Lance pushes in, Keith’s back arching up off the mattress, fingers scrabbling at the sheets. Lance finds his hands, twines their fingers together, pushes in all the way, stills for a moment, catching his breath. Keith pants below him, only allows him a minute before he’s pushing against Lance. “Come on,” he whispers, “move, Lance, move, please—“

Lance silences him with a heavy kiss, Keith gasping into his mouth as he starts to move. Slow at first, excruciating, because he knows that drives Keith crazy and he wants to tease for just a bit longer. Keith groans against him and Lance breaks away, goes back to the bite mark at the juncture of neck and shoulder, bites down again, licking, sucking. Keith cries out and reaches for his dick again.

Lance pushes his hands away and Keith groans. “Lance, please, please touch me, _touch me_.”

“I think you can do without, can’t you baby?” Lance asks, pulling away and sitting up slightly, pulling Keith against him as he pounds into him faster. “You have before.”

Keith throws his head back, sweat standing out stark in the hollows of his neck and collarbones. “Fuck, come on, don’t do that to me—“

“We’ll try it, baby. Try it for me.” He guides Keith’s hands up above his head and holds them there, leaning over him, putting his weight into it, cautious that it’s not too much. Keith arches, pulls briefly against his grip, and yields, bringing his legs up further until he’s nearly folded in half. Lance could come at the sight, but he closes his eyes and tries to hold it back. He doesn’t want this to end, not yet. 

“Unh,” Keith grunts out as Lance thrusts forward particularly hard, jolting his entire body up the mattress. “Lance, _ah_ , can you—can— _ohhh…_ “

“Use your words, baby,” Lance says, easing up his rhythm and loosening his grip on Keith’s wrists to push the sweaty hair away from his face, thumbing against the edge of his lips. “What is it?”

“ _Hnnn_ …” He gives Keith a moment to catch his breath, and then he gasps out, “over—behind—“

“You want it from behind?”

Keith screws his eyes shut and nods tightly, arching his neck back against the pillow. “Aww, baby,” Lance says, “but I want to see your face.”

Keith opens his eyes and glares at him, gritting his teeth. “If you want me to come untouched, you better turn me over.”

And, well. Keith never does give up _all_ his control, and Lance is okay with that. Because it’s hot. 

“Demanding,” he remarks, and Keith smirks at him for a split second before Lance gets his arms under him and flips him to his hands and knees. Keith groans pitifully when Lance slips out from the movement. Lance wanted that to be a little smoother, but hey. Not everything can be perfect. Keith props himself up on shaky limbs and pushes his ass back towards Lance. “Please,” he says, and Lance doesn’t miss the fact that he’s grinding lightly against the pillow that was under him.

He grabs Keith by the hips and jerks him up, delivering a swift slap to his left asscheek. Keith shudders and groans into the pillow. “What,” he asks, “you just wanted to switch positions so you could cheat?”

“No,” Keith whispers, and Lance slaps his other cheek. His handprints stand out, stark red against pale skin. Keith balls his hands into fists and shoves his ass up towards Lance. “No, I’m sorry. Please.” He’s growing close to incoherent now, just begging. Lance takes pity and pushes back in, gasping at the sound Keith makes when he does. He starts thrusting, picking up a punishing pace because honestly, he’s fooling himself if he thinks he can last much longer at all, so he might as well go fast and hard. Keith’s arms give out and he slumps down into the pillows, Lance’s tight grip on his hips the only thing keeping him from falling limp on the mattress.

“Lance,” Keith breathes, almost too quiet for him to hear. His breath hitches again. “ _Hah—_ harder, please, Lance, _god, please_ —“

Lance is a total fucking hypocrite for edging Keith and making him wait, because he himself isn’t going to last. He’s weak—weak for Keith, for the rough edge to his voice, for the warmth of his body, for the way he says his name—like he knows him, like he sees him, right down to the very core of his being.

He gives it his all, snapping into Keith hard enough to force grunts out of both of their mouths. Keith’s moaning, long, continuous; Lance can barely hear it over his own heavy breathing. He lets Keith’s hips go and he sinks to the mattress. Lance follows, pressing the entire length of his body against Keith’s, pushing him down, biting again into his shoulder. He knows they’re both cheating, now—Keith’s definitely feeling friction, pinned down like this—but he doesn’t care. He’s teetering on the edge, and he wants them to come together.

“Can you come?” he whispers into Keith’s ear, nuzzling into sweaty hair. Keith just whines, pants, nods once.

“Good,” Lance says. “Do it.”

Keith gasps, tenses up, arches his head up and captures Lance’s lips with his own, biting down on his lower lip as his entire body clenches. “Oh, god,” he groans. “ _Lance_.”

That does it. The combination of his name and Keith clenching and trembling around him sends him toppling over the edge and he comes with a cry that his whole family probably hears. It’s possibly the best orgasm of his life, but he’ll have to analyze that later because right now he’s too busy collapsing on top of Keith, eyes falling closed despite himself. For a moment—seconds? minutes?—all he feels is the warmth of Keith’s body beneath him, the tickle of hair on his face, the movement of Keith’s back under him as he pants, trying to catch his breath. He comes back to himself in stages and eventually gathers enough coordination to pull out and roll off of Keith, vaguely worried about crushing him. Keith groans lightly as Lance pulls out but otherwise stays limp, facedown on the pillows. A bit of cum drips down towards his balls and Lance’s cock twitches at the sight of it. He brings his fingers down to circle Keith’s hole again and he whines weakly.

“Shit, Keith,” Lance breathes. “That’s so hot. _You’re_ so fucking hot.”

Keith mumbles something into the pillows that Lance can’t make out. He rolls to the side and takes Keith with him, pulling him away from the puddle of his own cum on the sheets, and cradles him to his chest. Keith goes pliantly, limbs loose and relaxed, eyes shut. He looks thoroughly contented and thoroughly fucked out, and Lance congratulates himself. Keith nuzzles his nose into Lance’s shoulder and he feels the barest brush of lips against his skin as Keith sinks into him.

“What, baby?”

“Love you,” Keith mumbles a little louder. “Missed you.”

“Missed you too,” he says quietly, and turns Keith’s face towards him, kissing him slow and gentle. Keith barely reciprocates and Lance can tell he’s hovering on the edge of sleep.

“We should clean up.”

“Mmmmm….no. In a bit.” Keith shifts slightly, flopping an arm and a leg over Lance’s body to pin him down. “Tired.”

“I know,” Lance says. “But we should wipe off, change the sheets.”

Keith doesn’t respond, just tightens his grip on Lance. He relents. “Okay,” he says. “We can wait for a bit. But do you feel okay? Does your ass hurt at all? I got a little carried away.”

“‘m _great_ ,” Keith says into his shoulder. “Now shut up and let me sleep.”

“You’re always so sweet after sex.”

“Shhhh.”

Lance complies, adjusts himself so they’re more comfortably tangled together, and closes his eyes. They’re both going to regret this when they wake up sweaty with dried cum all over the place, but for now, he doesn’t care. He buries his nose in Keith’s hair, inhales his scent, and closes his eyes.

“Love you too,” he whispers as Keith’s breathing goes heavy and steady, and sleeps.

* * *

Something that never gets old: Waking up next to Keith. These days, Lance usually sleeps through the night and Keith usually rises early, so waking up to Keith’s relaxed, quiet face remains a rare luxury. When it happens, Lance could drink it in for hours. 

This morning, weak sunlight filters grey through the curtains and he can hear thunder rumbling from afar. The feeble light washes Keith out, makes him look pale and tired, does nothing to hide the dark circles under his eyes. Keith still comes back tired from missions, even though they’re not as physically demanding or dangerous these days. He really does hate meetings. It makes Lance feel a little guilty—he knows Keith could go back to more intense missions now, he’s been cleared for months. But he isn’t, because of Lance. Because the thought of him in dangerous, unstable places still threads its way through Lance’s nightmares more often than not.

And Keith cares about him. He wants to come home to him. So he puts himself through boring meeting after boring meeting after frustrating negotiation and comes home tired and grumpy, but he comes home.

Lance owes him more than he can fathom.

Keith sighs and grumbles something unintelligible in his sleep, turning away from Lance and frowning. Lance reaches out and smooths at the crease between his eyebrows, knowing it won’t wake him. His breathing evens back into slow, deep, inhales and his expression settles. He watches him for a few more minutes, the play of light on his bare shoulders, the twitch of his eyelashes against his cheeks. Then he shifts and slips out of bed as quietly as he can, grimacing at the stickiness of dried cum on his hands and sweat on the rest of his body. He slides on some underwear and tiptoes to the bathroom to clean up, returning to his room to dress quietly and tuck the covers around Keith before going downstairs. There’s an empty coffee mug in the sink and crumbs on the counter, so someone must be up, but they’re nowhere in sight. Outside, palm trees sway in the wind and the tarp covering the wood pile in the yard flutters, slapping against the ground loudly enough to be heard in the kitchen. The sky boils dark, but it’s not raining yet. He lets himself out the back door and walks down to the beach. The mango trees in the orchard sag with heavy blushing fruit, nearly ripe. 

It’s early still, and the windy beach is deserted, though fresh footprints in the damp sand show him someone walked here earlier, someone else went for a run. The ocean crashes, whipped to fury by the wind. He walks close enough to the shore that the highest waves wash over his feet. Still, nothing in the universe can match the scent of the salt spray from Earth’s oceans. Nothing can imitate the feel of sand between his toes or the taste of a ripe mango. 

He retreats up the beach a bit to sit and watch the waves. Sometimes he wonders what would have happened to if he’d refused to leave Altea. He almost had. He hadn’t seen how going home would help the ragged emptiness inside him. How long would he have stayed away from Earth? How infrequently would he have seen his family? Would he have ever dug his hands into Cuban soil again?

Would he still be falling asleep and waking up beside Allura? 

He lets himself fall back onto the sand, dragging his fingertips through it. Here on Varadero, nearly three years later, he can’t fathom what he’d be if he hadn’t come home. It’s true that Cuba couldn’t heal him, but Cuba brought him back to himself. Red soil under fingernails, the smell of the sea, family crowded around a dinner table, strong coffee in the morning, sand between his toes, _Leandro_. Not the Blue Paladin. Not the Red Paladin. Not a defender of the universe, not a soldier, not a diplomat. Not Lance McClain, goofball, rival, flirt. Leandro Álvarez McClain, son of María García Álvarez and Reinaldo Morales McClain. Son of farmers, with the land in his blood and his heart.

Now, he feels like he can finally be both. He's himself, nothing more, nothing less. Teacher, diplomat, farmer, partner, lover, son, friend. The past five years were a long, dark tunnel with nothing but a pinprick of light at the end, but he's there. He’s in the light, now, and it’s washing over him like a sunset over the ocean, like the first morning back on Earth when he looked at the sun rising over the desert around the Garrison and thought _there is no planet more beautiful than this one_.

Something nudges at his shoulder and he bats at it, expecting a seagull. Instead, a voice says, “Hey.” He opens his eyes.

Keith stands over him, holding two steaming mugs, looking rumpled but well-rested. He smiles down at him. “Coffee?”

He sits up and takes the mug, patting the sand next to him. Keith drops down to sit, squinting out at the waves.

“It’s going to rain.”

“Mmmm. Yeah. How are you feeling?”

Keith rolls his shoulders, stretches his legs out across the sand. “Good. I slept really well. Shit your cum out this morning, though.”

“Sexy.”

He makes a face. “Gross. Not last night! Last night was great, but this morning was a little…sticky.”

“I told you we should have cleaned up before we went to sleep.”

Keith shrugs. “Whatever. It was worth it. Right?” He turns back Lance, a little worried crease between his eyes. “It was good for you?”

Lance almost chokes on his coffee. “Good? Uh, yeah, it was great. It was so fucking hot I could barely control myself.”

Keith smirks. “I could tell.”

Lance swats him on the shoulder. “Shut up, like you were doing any better.”

Keith huffs a laugh, leaning his shoulder against Lance’s as he sips at his coffee. He doesn’t ask Lance why he’s sitting at the beach at the head of an oncoming storm at seven in the morning, for which Lance is grateful. Keith’s used to his stranger habits, to his early morning wanderings, to his usual beach spot. He probably knew where Lance was the minute he woke up and saw the empty space next to him.

Keith finishes his coffee and reaches into his pocket, digging around for something and eventually unearthing a crumpled card that he hands to Lance. Lance takes it and squints at it, the writing taking a moment to resolve.

It’s a simple invitation—pale yellow background with plain black writing. 

**Curtis and Takashi invite you to their wedding**

**06.21**

**Ucluelet, B.C.**

**Ceremony 5 PM**

**Celebration to follow** ****

“Shiro and Curtis?” Lance asks, surprised. “That seems…fast.”

Keith shrugs. Lance turns the invitation over. There’s a picture of Shiro and Curtis standing together somewhere in the desert, backed by red cliffs. It’s candid—neither of them look towards the camera. Curtis’ arm drapes around Shiro and Shiro’s laughing, head thrown back, eyes closed. He looks unburdened, happy. Like all the years of pain and fear and stress he’s carried have miraculously lifted from his shoulders, like none of it ever happened at all. Unexpectedly, Lance feels tears rise in his eyes.

“I’m happy for them,” he says. “They both deserve the best.”

“Of course they do,” Keith replies, then tears at a hangnail viciously with his teeth. “It is fast.”

Lance stares at Shiro in the photo, his easy expression, the way Curtis looks at him—like he’s the most miraculous thing he’s ever seen. “Maybe he’s learned better than to wait. You never know what’s coming. You might as well take your chances while you have them.”

Keith finds his hand and squeezes, leaning back into his shoulder. “He wants me to be best man.”

“Obviously.”

“I don’t know how to do that.”

Lance chuckles. “I don’t think it’s rocket science.”

“I’ll have to make a speech.”

“It’ll be great. You make speeches all the time.”

Keith sighs. “It feels like I’m losing him.”

Lance gives his hand a squeeze. “I get that. But you’re not.”

Keith chews on his thumbnail more. “I know,” he says eventually. Then, after a beat—“It’s far away.”

“Yeah,” Lance acknowledges. “British Columbia. Why there?”

“Curtis’ hometown.”

“Oh.” He looks back down at the invitation. How strange that he’s been to galaxies a million light years from here, but never to the western coast of North America. “I never knew that.”

Keith nods. “They’re gong to have it at his parents’ house, right on the water.”

Lance pockets the invitation and turns fully towards Keith, guiding his fingernails away from his teeth and holding his other hand. “Sounds like a perfect summer vacation, huh?”

Keith nods again. “Be my plus one?”

“What?” he asks, mock-affronted. “I don’t get my own invite?”

“No. You only get to come if you’re my date.”

He pretends to think for a moment. “I guess, if my only other option is to become a wedding crasher, I’ll go with you.”

Keith smiles at him, eyes crinkling, and the first drops of rain fall, warm and wet against his cheeks. “Good.”

Lance looks out at the sea, at the dark clouds, at the waves. “Should we go home? Mama’s going to want to feed us before we head to Havana.”

“Yeah,” Keith says. “Just a second.” He stands and holds a hand out to Lance.

“What?”

“Just this.” He pulls Lance up and kisses him, slow and deep and sweet, and Lance wraps him up in his arms and breathes him in. They stand there for a long time, trading kisses back and forth, until they’re both soaked and smiling, and then trail their way back through the orchard and home, still holding hands.

* * *

The summer solstice dawns foggy and freezing on Vancouver Island. Shiro’s philosophical about it, Curtis placid. Pidge thinks it’s hilarious. Keith’s really the only one panicking, in his own particular way. Lance wakes to him sitting up in bed, furiously rewriting the best man speech he’s been perfecting for two months straight. 

“You need to calm down,” Lance tells him groggily, facedown in the pillows, and Keith glares at him. Lance ignores the look. “And don’t rewrite it. Anything you rewrite today is gonna be bad.”

“Don’t _say_ that!” Keith says, sounding horrified. Lance unearths himself from the pillows and props himself on his elbows to look at him. “I’m serious. You spent ages on that speech and then got everyone and their mother to look it over for you. It’s _good_. Don’t ruin it.”

“You’re not helping,” Keith growls, but tosses the tablet to the floor, opting instead to flop over on top of Lance and groan loudly. “I don’t know what to do.”

“You could go back to sleep for a couple of hours.”

Keith just huffs in his ear and continues to lie on top of him. Lance rolls to the side and pulls Keith to his chest, scratching his fingers through his hair until Keith sighs and relaxes against him.

“This is so weird,” he says eventually, and Lance pulls his eyes open to see him staring out the foggy window, gaze a million miles away. “I was always so sure I’d see Shiro marry Adam.”

“Mmmm,” Lance yawns and rubs his nose against Keith’s scalp. “Do you miss him?”

“Adam? Yeah. I mean, I still expect to see him around at the Garrison. He was really good to me. Probably thought Shiro was crazy for taking me under his wing like he did, but he was nice about it.”

“He wasn’t crazy,” Lance murmurs. 

“What?”

“He wasn’t crazy. He was lucky to find you.”

Keith snorts. “Yeah, right. I’ve taken years off his life.”

“Probably.” Lance sits up, pulls Keith up with him, forces him to look in his eyes. “He’s still lucky.”

Keith squirms. “What are you trying to say, Lance?”

“I’m just saying that you’re great, okay? You’ve been a great brother to him. You’re loyal enough to get kicked out of the Garrison for him, to follow him into space, to almost die for him. He loves you more than anything. And you’re going to be a great best man and you’re going to give a perfect speech and also, I love you. And there’s still eleven hours till this thing starts, so can we please go back to sleep for an hour or two? I’m all fucked up with this time change.”

Keith stares at him, mouth slightly open. “I…know?”

Lance flops back down into the sheets. “Good. You’re a good boyfriend, too.”

“Thanks?”

“You’re welcome.”

Tentatively, Keith lays back down, curled into him. They lay there in silence for a long time, long enough that Lance thinks he might have fallen back asleep. Abruptly, he speaks again.

“I didn’t think I’d be alive.”

He opens his eyes again, looks at Keith’s profile, soft in the weak light. “What?”

Keith swallows. “It’s so strange to be here, and to be with you, because I really thought I’d die.”

Now there are alarm bells ringing in his ears. “What are you talking about?”

Keith turns to look at him and his eyes are huge and swimming with vulnerability. “I thought I was going to die on Laurent, and I didn’t let myself think about any sort of future, let alone something like this. And before that, I figured I’d die in the war, or get stuck forever in the Abyss, or die on a Blade mission, or die when I was living alone in the desert and could barely open a can of beans, or die because someone beat the shit out of me at some foster home. I’ve never in my life thought about the future because I didn’t think I was going to live long enough to have one.”

He doesn’t know what to say. “Keith, I—“

Keith shakes his head, pushes himself up on his elbow, and looks down at him. “No, you don’t have to say anything, just—in the Abyss, for a long time, all I saw was the past. My parents, mostly, or me when I was a baby. The first vision of the future, I thought it was a dream. A really good dream that made me feel happy for ages after because I usually just had nightmares. And then I started seeing more and more visions of the future—some of them were good, some of them were bad, all of them were infinite possibilities—and I realized it wasn’t a dream. It was a possible future, but I couldn’t believe that it was the future meant for me, because it was too good. Want to know what I saw?”

Lance licks his lips. “Yes,” he whispers.

“I saw Shiro’s wedding. I thought it was strange, because the man he was marrying wasn’t Adam, but I knew it was someone I liked. Everyone I loved was there—my mom, and Allura and Coran, and all of you. And you were right next to me, and when Shiro kissed his new husband, you put your arm around me and kissed me, too. And then the vision ended, and all I could think was god, some Keith in some universe has that. And I was unbelievably jealous of him.”

He stares down at Lance. Lance stares back. 

“Sometimes I think I’m still in that cell,” Keith whispers. “And almost nothing can convince me I’m not, because this is too good. It’s too much. I can’t believe this is the future I never looked forward to. It doesn’t seem real. And that’s why I’m freaking out about this wedding. Because I feel like I'm going to wake up any minute, and I’ll be back in that cell alone. Or worse, still in the Abyss, and this was all just a vision of a future that isn’t meant for me.”

Lance blinks, and there’s dampness under his eyes. He reaches up and cups Keith’s cheek in his hand, feeling the rough skin of his scars under his palm, the uncanny warmth of him.

“This is real,” he says. “I promise. I couldn’t lie to you.”

Keith lets out a laugh that sounds more like he’s trying not to sob. “I know. You never lied to me, even when I was hallucinating you.”

Lance sits up, leans forward, cups Keith cheek with his other hand so he’s cradling his face between his palms. “I don’t know what to say,” he says. “I know how you feel. Sometimes I wake up and think this all has to be fake. Sometimes I can’t fall asleep because I’m afraid I’m going to wake up and it all will have been a dream. But it’s not. _We’re_ not. And Keith—you deserve this future, okay? You deserve this.”

Keith’s good eye shines with tears but he manages a small smile. “I don’t know. I’ve thought I might be dreaming ever since you kissed me in the bathroom.”

Lance smiles slightly. “Me, too.”

Keith looks at him for a long moment, and then his mouth quirks up in a slight smile. “You kissed me before that night, you know.”

“I—what?”

“The night we flew back to the Garrison together—we got drunk at dinner, remember?”

“Yeah?” He remembers. Mostly the hangover from the morning after, if he's being honest.

“You insisted on waiting for me to go to bed, said you didn’t want to sleep without me. I thought it was weird, because we’d only been sleeping in the same bed for a few nights, to stop your nightmares. But I walked you back to your room anyway, and when we got there you kissed me.”

Heat washes over him and he knows his entire body is flushed. “Oh my god,” he says. “I don’t remember.”

Keith rolls his eyes. “I figured. Felt pretty weird about it after, when you were acting all normal and all I could think about was how nice your lips felt, even though you tasted like Coran’s disgusting alcohol.”

“Oh my god—is that why you were acting so weird and standoffish? I couldn’t figure out what I’d done.”

Keith looks uncomfortable. “I was trying to act normal. It was just—I guess I got hopeful, after that. Hopeful that it wasn’t just me. But then you clearly didn’t remember, and, well. I didn’t want to push you.”

Lance reaches up and cards a hand through Keith’s hair, cupping the back of his head. “It wasn’t just you. But that was right after I realized, and I guess I thought it couldn’t happen, so I tried to ignore it.”

Keith cocks his head. “Why couldn’t it happen?”

“Because—because, well…it’s _you_. And you’re beautiful and strong and brave and my _rival_ and I figured there was no way you felt the way I did. Not even a little.”

“The rival thing was always one-sided. You drove me crazy—you still do, sometimes—but I always liked you. I told you that.”

“Well I know that _now_ ,” Lance huffs. “But…I’m sorry I did that. I’m sorry if it hurt you.”

Keith shrugs. “It didn’t, really. We got there in the end.”

“Yeah, and now you can’t convince yourself it’s real.”

Keith sighs and leans his forehead against Lance’s. “Well, if it is a dream, it’s a pretty good one. Hope it lasts.”

Lance pulls him down and they curl together again, legs tangled and arms wrapped around torsos. “It’s not a dream,” he says again. “Not then, not now.”

“I know,” Keith whispers. He turns back towards the window. “There wasn’t fog in the vision, though. Maybe this is a different universe than what I saw.”

“It’ll clear up,” Lance says, sure for some reason, and kisses him.

They don’t fall back asleep, but they do spend two more hours in bed engaged in other activities. The morning remains grey and drizzly, but the fog burns off by noon and the ceremony set up continues as planned—Shiro and Curtis wanted it on the beach at low tide, the waves behind them, the sun at their backs. In an emergency, they could have moved it into the living room of Curtis’ parents house, but it would have been awfully crowded, so everyone crosses their fingers and they set up outside. Lance gets stuck on chair duty alongside Matt and Rizavi and _damn,_ he’s out of shape. Who knew lugging folding chairs across wet sand in dress shoes could make him sweat this much? It’s not even warm outside.

Keith’s sequestered away somewhere, helping Shiro get ready, and guests start showing up around four, which is when he gets put on usher duty, helping little old ladies totter across the sand to their seats. It seems like Curtis is related to half the town, and between them and the large contingency from the Garrison, the beach is packed. It’s probably the most action this town has seen all year.

As people settle into their seats, Allura grabs Lance’s arm and guides him to the front row. He leaves the seat on the end open for Keith and Allura and Romelle settle in on his other side. Beyond them sit Coran, Pidge and Matt, and Shay and Hunk, who’s already crying. He’s been leaking on and off all day, periodically sweeping in to crush Lance in hugs that leave his ribs tender. 

“I can’t believe it,” he says now, wiping furiously at his eyes as Shay pats him on the back. “I just can’t believe it. Shiro and Curtis. Getting married. Oh my god, I never thought any of us would get married.”

“It is wonderful,” Allura says as Romelle sniffles and wipes her own eyes. Romelle and Hunk have always been on the same emotional wavelength. “It’s so wonderful we’re all together again.”

“It’s gross,” Pidge says, kicking sand up. While her mother lost the battle of getting her into a dress—she’s wearing surprisingly fitted slacks and a green dress shirt under a white suit jacket—she did manage to wrestle Pidge’s hair into submission and she’s sporting a neat ponytail tied with a ribbon. Lance hadn’t realized her hair was even long enough to get into a ponytail, given how much of a rat’s nest it usually is. He honestly barely recognized her when he first saw her that morning. “Romance is disgusting. _They’re_ disgusting.”

“Cynic,” Matt says.

Hunk turns to Shay, eyes wide as though he’s just come to an earth-shattering realization. “Oh my god, _we_ could get married.”

Shay stops rubbing his back and stares at him. “Is that a proposal?”

“No?” Hunk says, looking surprised. “I don’t think so? I just never thought about it before, but we _could_.”

“Smooth, buddy,” Lance murmurs as Allura stifles her laughter. 

“For the record, I would say yes,” Shay says, and Hunk’s eyes get impossibly larger. “However, when you decide to actually ask, I expect a proper Balmeran proposal, soul crystals and all.”

“Soul crystals?” Hunk asks, still sounding shell-shocked.

“You can ask my brother about it,” Shay replies, smiling sweetly, and Hunk’s terrified response is cut off by a hush sweeping over the crowd and the officiant clearing his throat.

There are murmurs from behind them and Lance twists in his seat to look. Keith stands at the end of the aisle with Curtis’ sister. And he looks… _good._ Lance wasn’t so sure about the white tuxes when Shiro first showed them to him, but he has to admit it’s a good look. Keith’s is fitted to perfection, just a peek of the red shirt underneath contrasting perfectly against his pale skin and dark hair. He looks nervous, but he manages a shy smile as the crowd looks at him. Then Curtis’ sister gives him a nudge and they start walking down the aisle, followed by Curtis’ parents and Shiro’s grandmother, an intimidating Japanese woman Lance met just the day before. And behind her—Shiro and Curtis, hand in hand, smiling widely. Shiro catches his eye and winks at him and Lance can’t help but grin back. When they get to the front, Keith embraces Shiro as the officiant—Curtis’ great-uncle—embraces Curtis. Shiro and Keith’s hug lasts much longer—Keith seems reluctant to let go, and Shiro murmurs something in his ear that makes Keith hide his face briefly in his shoulder. 

Eventually he lets go and Keith makes his way over to sit beside Lance, eyes slightly red. Lance grabs his hand immediately and Keith squeezes tightly. 

The ceremony itself is a meld of modern and traditional, based on the Coast Salish traditions of Curtis’ clan. The officiant lays headbands of cedar across Shiro and Curtis’ foreheads and ties their joined hands together with a woven leather rope. At this point, pretty much everyone around Lance is teary-eyed, even Pidge, though she’s valiantly trying to hold it back, chin trembling with the effort. Only Keith remains dry-eyed, though his grip on Lance’s hand tightens by the minute.

When it comes time for the vows, Shiro clears his throat. If he wasn’t in the front row, Lance wouldn’t be able to hear him—it’s clear his words are meant for Curtis and Curtis alone.

“I spent a long time trying to write my vows,” he starts, gaze flicking away from Curtis. “And all I could come up with was this—You brought me back to myself. After everything that happened, I was broken. I didn’t even feel human anymore. I felt like I didn’t exist in my own life, and I couldn’t fathom ever feeling real again. And then you came up to me in the mess hall—you remember?” He meets Curtis’ eyes again and Curtis nods and smiles, biting his lip.

“I was sitting there just staring off into space, I couldn’t bring myself to eat—I was never hungry, then. And you just sat down next to me and said, ‘Bet you were hoping to come back to better food after all that, huh? Sorry to disappoint.’ And I was so surprised by how _normal_ it was I just started laughing. And I couldn’t stop—I was hysterical. But instead of looking at me like I was crazy and leaving, you stayed there sitting next to me. You talked to me like I was just me, even though you knew everything that had happened. You didn’t treat me like a hero or like a monster or even like your commanding officer. You just treated me like a friend, and that made all the difference in the world. I…I don’t know what I would have done without you. I don’t know who I would be. So thank you. I love you.”

His voice breaks at the end, and Lance is definitely crying now. So is Curtis. He shakes his head, looking at Shiro with such a heart-wrenchingly loving expression Lance feels a chasm opening in his own chest.

“I wrote vows,” he says, voice thick, “But screw them. All I have to say is that you were never broken, you’ve always been the most human person I’ve ever known, and _you_ saved _me_. And no matter how horrific the circumstances were that brought us to today, I am so, so thankful to have the privilege of marrying you. I love you.”

The officiant looks to Curtis to see if he has anything more to add, but Curtis only has eyes for Shiro. After a moment, the officiant reaches behind him to grab an embroidered blanket and drapes it around their shoulders. “This blanket holds you together in the embrace of all the friends and family here with you today. You are now two united as one. You may kiss.”

Curtis and Shiro surge forward, wrapping each other in an embrace under the blanket and kissing with an edge of desperation. As they do, as if by magic, or the blessing of some god, the sun breaks though the clouds and illuminates them from behind, the buttery midsummer light reflecting gemstones in the waves behind them, streaming through the branches of the evergreens perched on the black rocks of the beach and washing them all in warmth. Exclamations arise from the crowd and Lance turns to Keith, who’s staring at Shiro and Curtis with tears streaming down his cheeks, hand over his mouth.

“Keith,” he says quietly, and Keith’s eyes dart to him, wide in a mixture of joy and heartbreak. Lance, remembering his vision from the Abyss, draws him close with an arm around his shoulders. As the crowd starts clapping, cheering Shiro and Curtis as they draw apart and face their friends and family, Lance gently pulls Keith’s hand away from his mouth and kisses him, soft and sweet and hopeful. With the sun warming them and the smell of the sea and the laughter and applause of their friends, Lance knows this isn’t a dream. Even a dream couldn’t be this perfect.

* * *

Several hours later, after a delicious dinner, after Keith’s best man speech, which makes everyone both laugh and cry and goes off without a hitch, after the dancing starts, after a few trips to the open bar, they’re all sat around a table in the side yard of Curtis’ parents’ house, laughing themselves silly. Curtis is somewhere being doted on by his extended family, so Shiro’s landed with them for the time being—the seven of them gathered around the table, just like the old times at dinner on the castleship. The warm sun of the summer solstice slants over the sea, washing them with warmth. It will be light until ten or eleven this far north, and it seems like this party might last far beyond that. Lance is very full and a little drunk and leaning on Keith and he thinks maybe he’s never been happier.

“Remember when the castle got hijacked by Sendak?” Pidge laughs, cheeks flushed with drink she’s definitely too young to have, “And the food goo machine went wild in the kitchen?”

“Oh my god,” Hunk groans, resting his forehead on the table. “That’s not something to laugh at! I almost died!”

“You didn’t _almost die_ from the food goo,” Keith counters, “ _I_ almost died from the training bot trying to kill me!”

“Oh, boo hoo,” Lance counters. “You were always fighting the training bots, you could hold your own. _I_ almost got tossed out the airlock!”

“Thank goodness I was there to save you,” Keith smirks at him. “You damsel in distress.”

“Oh my god,” Pidge says loudly, rolling her eyes. “Shut up! No flirting! Just for five fucking seconds, you two need to not flirt!”

“Don’t be unkind to the lads, number five!” Coran says, knocking back the rest of his drink. “We should all be happy for them! Why, I was surprised to only hear they were courting last year! I thought you two were together when I first met you on the castleship!”

“Don’t say courting,” Keith grumbles at the same time Lance chokes on his drink and sputters, “What?”

“Oh, yes,” Allura says. “It was part of the reason I never reciprocated your terrible advances, Lance. It was clear something was going on between you two, we just thought you were hiding it.”

“We hated each other!” Lance says, aghast.

“No, we didn’t,” Keith counters, matter of fact. “I liked you and you were too dumb to realize you were into me, so you hid it with your weird competitive shit.”

Lance turns to gape at Keith. “Shut up! You don’t know anything! I thought you were cool, sure, but I wasn’t—I didn’t—you’re the worst!”

“That wasn’t what you were saying this morning when I—“ Keith starts before Lance slaps a hand over his mouth. “Shut up!”

“Oh my god, _enough_ ,” Pidge groans. “Besides, he’s right. You’ve been obsessed with him for _years_ , Lance, what about that time we got drunk together and you made a list of the top five people at the Garrison you wanted to fuck and Keith was _number two_?”

Lance brandishes a finger at her. “That’s not fair—you can’t use shit I said when I was drunk!”

“Who was number one?” Shiro asks curiously, stirring his drink.

“You were,” Hunk says, and Shiro chokes.

“ _You promised you’d never tell!”_ Lance howls as Keith breaks into laughter. “Especially not at his _wedding_!”

“Wow,” Keith chokes out between guffaws. “Shit, I never thought I’d be competing against my own brother, but that’s cold, Lance.”

“ _Me_?” Shiro asks, face bright red.

“Oh, shut up,” Lance snaps. “Everyone at the Garrison had a crush on you, don’t pretend you didn’t know it.”

“True,” Allura says placidly. “I must admit, I was quite taken with you at first, before I realized you were uninterested in the females of gendered species. You were certainly more impressive than the rest of them.”

“That’s actually _so rude,_ ” Lance says, pointing at her as Shiro turns an even deeper shade of red. “And, might I remind you, you ended up with me in the end, so I can’t have been that bad, despite your commentary on my ears—“

Allura blinks at him. “Well, of course, that was after I got to know you. Your personality sort of made up for your physical features.”

Keith continues to howl with laughter as Lance settles back into his chair, arms crossed. “I need another drink.”

“So do I,” Pidge says.

“You do _not_ ,” Shiro counters, moving her glass across the table.

“Anyway, if we’re going to talk about my embarrassing moment with the food goo machine, can I also bring up the time Coran fixed the teleduv with his own mucus? Because that was _disgusting_ ,” Hunk says, helpfully changing the subject.

“Yes, well, thank goodness for that, or we would have been in quite a pickle, as you earthlings say!” Coran replies. “And besides, that was nothing compared to the time number five set off the bomb in the bathroom.”

“That was an _accident_! What about when Lance almost fried the crystal trying to hook up the game console?”

“That was at least sixty percent your fault!”

“Oh my god, do you remember the space mall? And Hunk almost stayed there to work with that weird Galran—“

“Hey, don’t call Sal _weird_ , he’s a wonderful collaborator—“

“Whatever, what about the cow?”

“I still cannot believe you humans drink the milk of those animals.”

“You _liked_ the milkshake I made, don’t pretend you didn’t—“

Around and around they go, laughing and sharing memories. It might be the alcohol, it might be the occasion, but a warmth tingles in his chest and down his limbs. He sits back and watches his friends—his family—laugh and thanks whatever power there is in the world—god or karma or pure, dumb luck—that they’re all here together today.

He sucks up the last of his drink and scoots his chair back to stand. Keith breaks out of the conversation and looks up at him.

“You good?” he asks. 

Lance nods. “Getting another drink. You want anything?”

Keith stands and takes his hand. “I’ll just come with you.”

The bar’s upstairs on the deck of the house, with a view over the ocean. Lance gets his refill and wanders over to the edge, looking out over the water and up the rocky coast. The tide’s coming back in, waves crashing over the rocks, light filtering through the branches of the pines. Inexplicably, staring out at the view and the people laughing together and dancing on the beach, he finds tears in his eyes.

Sometimes, things are still bad. Sometimes he wakes sweating and shaking from nightmares, grasping for Keith or crying out for Allura, and sometimes no one’s there to hold him, to remind him it's all over. Sometimes he has to take a pen and write on his hand in dark block letters **_KEITH IS COMING BACK_** so he remembers every time he sees it that he’s safe, he’ll be home, he isn’t lost or missing or dead. Sometimes he loses hours or days to grey numbness, falling back into that strange, seeping shock that gripped him for so long in the months after he returned to Earth. Sometimes he dreams the Galra blew up Earth, that his family is dead. Sometimes he dreams Allura died in that final confrontation with Honerva and he wakes with tears on his cheeks. Sometimes he dreams Keith died all alone, trapped in a cell on Laurent, killed by people he thought were his friends, and he wakes with rage in his chest. Sometimes he still wonders if it was all worth it and mourns the person he would have been—that they all would have been—if none of it happened at all. Sometimes, as he told Keith, he wonders if any of it did, if he’ll wake up someday in bed in Cuba, a little boy still desperate to someday see the stars.

When he was in space, he told himself he was fighting for his family. The thought of them brought him through battles and losses and injuries and endless, endless fear. The need to protect them, to protect his home, pushed him to fight and fight, to stay alive. 

He never bothered to think about fighting for himself. Never contextualized it as his own future that was as dependent on the war as anyone else’s. And now he’s here in that future, living it. And sometimes he thinks, _if it wasn’t for what happened, I wouldn’t have this_. 

This. Coming home tired and grumpy from teaching to Keith cooking dinner, the kitchen a disaster, Keith smiling at him with sauce spattered on his shirt. Falling asleep next to him at night, waking up to him in the morning—or, more likely, waking up to the smell of coffee and Keith humming in the kitchen. Teaching him how to play Mario Kart with Pidge, watching him take care of the slowly growing assortment of herbs and hot peppers he’s cultivating on their windowsill, living with him as they build a home together, warm and welcoming and so unlike that lonely desert shack or the cold apartment on Daibazaal. Tagging along on missions, watching him do what he does best—argue with people until he gets the resources to help those in need. Watching him interact with his family. Kissing him in the shower, after breakfast when he’s got egg stuck to the side of his mouth, when they say goodbye and when they see each other again, when he’s half-asleep and grumpy, when he’s fucking him or getting fucked.

Just— _this._ Keith. 

Living.

He realizes he’s zoned out when Keith nudges him lightly. He fumbles his drink and Keith catches it, holding his hand for a moment with those warm, steady fingers.

“You okay?” He sounds slightly concerned. Lance reinforces his grip on his glass and nods.

“Yeah. Just thinking. I’m happy.”

Keith smiles at him, sun reflected in his eyes, breeze blowing a strand of hair across his face. “You’re thinking you’re happy?”

Behind them—most of the people Lance loves most in the world, together and safe and celebrating, at least for tonight. In front of them—life. The future. Forever.

“Yeah. You?”

Keith laughs a little and reaches for his hand again. “Yeah,” he says, twining their fingers together. “I love you, Lance. Leandro.”

Lance squeezes back, closes his eyes, tastes the ocean on his lips. 

“I love you, too, Keith.”

A million years ago, on some strange, faraway planet, or perhaps hallucinating under the influence of an alien drug, or maybe just in a dream, Lance called Keith the future. It was a future he wasn’t sure any of them would see, but it was always one he hoped for.

And here they are.

 

_Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,_

_And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,_

_Do not go gentle into that good night._

 

_Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight_

_Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,_

_Rage, rage against the dying of the light._

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so much for reading. This is the longest, most involved thing I've ever written and I am so thankful for your comments, kudos, and support. VLD was a big disappointment to me in a lot of ways, but it also gave me characters I really love. I hope I did them justice.
> 
> Follow me on [Tumblr](https://prevalent-masters.tumblr.com) and [twitter](https://twitter.com/Populustremulo2) for updates on other fic projects, fandom shit, and the occasional smattering of politics.


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